


Unfinished Tales

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Brainwashing, Central Intelligence Agency, Corruption, F/M, Gangsters, Gender Issues, High School, Hypnotism, Korean Characters, Las Vegas, Peer Pressure, Personality Swap, Police, Popularity, Public Humiliation, Sexual Slavery, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Suburbia, Washington D.C., politician
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: Three erotic hypnosis stories that I started, yet couldn’t finish…





	1. Introduction

** _My story completion ratio hovers somewhere below fifty percent. That is to say, over half of the erotic hypnosis stories I begin are never finished, usually because I realize they are duds somewhere on Page 5 or halfway through Chapter 2. Most of those tales go straight into the wastepaper basket, and good riddance._ **

** _However, there are a number of stories I’ve started, only to stall out, then pick up again, then stall again, and so on. These are the Unfinished Tales, stories which never rose from the operating table, no matter how much love and sweat I poured into them._ **

** _While I still have love for these stories, there came a sad moment when I realized I had to let them go. Going back to the table for yet another rewrite was not going to help them. And to be honest, I’m exhausted when it comes to trying to fix these tales. I’d rather lay them to rest and move on to new stories._ **

** _So I thought it might be fun to pick three of the Unfinished Tales and share them with you. I’ve polished them up a little to make them presentable. Two of the stories had sketch endings, but I felt those were really, really bad, so I’ll just summarize those endings for you._ **

** _Be warned: You may experience a sudden lurch when these stories crash to a halt before the plot is resolved. I’ll conclude each tale with a brief discussion of what I was trying to accomplish, and where I think things went off the rails. And then you can make you own judgements._ **

** _The Unfinished Tales are:_ **

  * **_“Congressional Detail.” A powerful congressman becomes obsessed with the beautiful young police officer who humiliated him in public. The congressman conspires with the CIA to hypnotize and seduce this woman. (Three chapters)_**
  * **_“Esmerelda Amazonia.” A meek and timid 1950’s housewife in Las Vegas is hypnotized to become a brazen exotic dancer. When she seduces a Mafia don, everything in her life spins out of control. (Three chapters)_**
  * **_“You Know You Want To.” When the most popular girl in school peer-pressures Elaine to get hypnotized, suddenly Elaine can’t control herself when she’s around the boys. (Two chapters)_**


	2. Congressional Detail:  Chapter One

** _New Hampshire and R Street, just a little north of DuPont Circle_ **

** _Washington DC_ **

** _April 10th, 2013 -- 10:04 PM_ **

** **

The driver of the black BMW, a tall, thin man in his fifties, spat out an abominable curse. He was being pulled over, actually **_pulled over_** by the district’s MPD (Metropolitan Police Department), despite his Congressional plates! He was John Davos, Representative of Illinois’ 19th District. What the fuck?!?

John Davos wasn’t accustomed to being stopped for **_anything_**. His career certainly hadn’t known any speedbumps. After serving as a combat Marines and then as a pastor, he’d vaulted through the ranks of the Illinois state legislature and then to the House of Representatives in record time. Despite his bald head and somewhat cold demeanor, he was set to capture a Senate seat or the Illinois governor’s mansion. Whichever opened up first.

The police officer walked to his window and firmly tapped on the glass.

“Yeah, yeah,” Representative Davos grumbled, fishing out his wallet.

The officer tapped again, this time impatiently. The congressman rolled down the window.

“Here,” Davos snapped at the police. He forked over his driver’s license and then his Congressional ID. Usually when cops saw the second one, he was quickly allowed to continue on his way.

The officer read both cards without comment. Davos drummed on the steering wheel, already thinking ahead to how much longer it would take to get to his townhouse.

“Registration, sir?” the cop said, and for the first time, Davos realized the officer was female. Surprised, he squirmed around in his seat.

Instantly, the cop’s flashlight blazed in his face. “Registration, **_please_**, Congressman,” she repeated, her voice firm and level.

“Yeah…” Davos replied. “Er, one sec.”

While the cop watched him carefully, Davis popped open his glove compartment, filtering the contents with angry fingers. There were a lot of government passes and embassy papers lodged in there. A program for last month’s Illinois Treemaster’s Fundraiser. A half-consumed pack of gum.

_Motherfucker, there’s no fucking registration?_ Davos thought furiously. He would flay his staff alive.

“Congressman?” the lady cop said, sounding impatient.

“Jesus Christ,” Davos snarled. “I told you…”

There! There it was. The registration card appeared in his fingertips. “Here,” he said, thrusting it to the policewoman.

She took less than a second to read it. “This is **_expired_**, Congressman.”

“Motherfucker…!” Davos breathed. His staff was going to pay.

He rooted some more through more bureaucratic debris before giving up. “I don’t have it,” he declared, throwing up his hands. He added, “This is a staff car.”

“There’s no registration?” the cop asked, all business.

“There isn’t,” glowered Davos. “Look, officer, I’m obviously a member of Congress, can’t you-“

“Are you aware how fast you were going, Congressman?” said the cop.

Davos jutted out his chin. No-one dared interrupt him.

“Look,” he said angrily, and opened the car door.

It was a mistake. Immediately the cop dropped into a tense stance, one hand instinctively on her sidearm. “Remain within the vehicle, sir,” she barked.

Davos got out anyway, folding his arms. “Officer, can you just please verify my identity, and-“

Now the cop spoke with force. “**_Put both hands on the car, sir!_**”

The congressman blinked. “Excuse me?”

“**_Do it_**,” the cop advised, not kindly.

For the first time, Davos saw his accuser. Even in the MPD uniform, she was beautiful, startlingly beautiful. Big green eyes, soft cheeks, pink lips, long lashes, red hair. For a moment, he idly wondered if he was on some reality show where the sexy lady cop turns out to be a stripper.

But there was fire in the cop’s eyes, and for the first time, Davos saw that she was prepared to draw her weapon.

A second cop was there, an African-American man. Her partner. The guy cop was following the female’s lead.

“Hands on the car,” Sexy Lady Cop repeated, “**_sir._**”

Taken aback, Davos did as he was told.

“Wait here,” the cop ordered.

The officer turned and walked back to her cruiser, taking Davos’ IDs. Thrown by this bizarre experience, the congressman found himself staring after her. The DC Police uniform – simple black slacks, blue button-down, black vest, boots – wasn’t much to entice the imagination, but he noted her lean but muscular body as it passed beneath the streetlights. She walked with complete authority, as if the whole city was hers.

A sudden flash of light from the sidewalk made Davos wince and blink. A small crowd of passers-by had recognized him. And of course, one of them was a photographer.

***********

** **

** _Longworth House Office Building_ **

** _15 Independence Ave SE_ **

** _Washington DC_ **

** _April 11th, 2013 -- 8:42 AM_ **

Chief-of-Staff Bill Kruger walked through the Davos Congressional office, stifling gossip as he passed. Already he was nursing a major headache.

The morning headlines were brutal. “**_CONGRESSMAN ARRESTED?_**” the NY Post wondered, with a cute picture of John Davos from last night, hands on his car, obviously getting busted by the law. The accompanying stories really didn’t have much to report – Davos had just gotten a speeding ticket, after all – but the optics were terrible. The Davos Communication Team was in overdrive to assure the media that there were no drugs, no hookers, no small boys, no Russian agents, no illegals, and no Martians in the car at the time of the… er, incident. No, the Congressman hadn’t been drinking, snorting, or shooting up anything. All he was guilty of was a lead foot.

Kruger knocked, then entered the central office, throwing one last threatening glare at his subordinates. As Davos’ Chief-of-Staff, he was responsible to making sure moments like this didn’t dissolve into chaos.

These days, one bad media cycle was all it took to ensure you lost the next election. Already, the talking heads on cable were declaring that Davos must be an out-of-control frat boy, and why haven’t the good people of Illinois booted him from office already?

Congressman Davos himself sat at his enormous desk, slouched in his seat, glaring at his computer monitor. Other than his eyes, he was completely motionless.

Kruger shut the door. Time to face the music.

“Morning, Congressman,” he said, forcing a smile.

Davos didn’t reply.

“So… the press is pretty bad,” began Kruger, “but I think if you authorize the release of the police record, we can explain it away. Eventually.”

Davos exhaled through his nose, still studying his computer screen.

The chief-of-staff couldn’t resist a peak. He moved to stand behind his boss, craning his neck. Davos didn’t make a move to hide the computer’s display.

There, on the screen, was the MPD personnel file for one Sargent Grace O’Mara. There was only a single picture of the officer, an official office headshot, taken from the neck up. But Davos studied it with the greatest of interest.

Kruger glanced at his brooding superior, then back at the photo. “She’s the cop who-“

“Yeah,” Davos grunted.

Kruger looked closely. Officer O’Mara was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. There was no question about it. DC Cops weren’t supposed to be attractive; this one broke the mold. In all his years at the nation’s capital, Kruger had seen thousands of the City’s Finest. He’d never seen a policewoman as gorgeous as this.

Fishing for the right thing to say, Kruger said, “She’s…”

“She’s hot, Bill,” Davos said quietly. “So hot. **_Soooo_** hot. You should have seen her.”

Kruger grew alarmed. As a member of Congress, Davos had access to District of Columbia city records. There was nothing improper or weird about a member looking up records of a city employee. But there was a tone in Davos’ voice which telegraphed sheer danger. The Congressman sounded both angry and in love at the same time.

“You want me to make some calls?” Kruger offered. “See if we can’t get her badge pulled?”

“She humiliated me, Bill,” said Davos absently. “Treated me like a gang member.”

Kruger cleared his throat, softly. “Congressman…”

“I have to have her,” Davos said, more to himself than anyone else.

The Chief-of-Staff closed his eyes in exasperation. “Sir,” he said tightly, “you know that can’t be considered.”

“I have to have her,” Davos repeated wistfully. “I have to spank her on the ass and then fuck her raw. I have to.”

Kruger glanced at the photos of the Congressman, Mrs. Davos, and their four daughters which sat on the other side of that massive desk. Davos’ youngest child was… four?

“John,” the older man said firmly. “You have the CIA hearings in an hour. Are you ready?”

Davos seemed to snap out of his funk at the mention of the Intelligence hearings. But he didn’t minimize Officer O’Mara’s picture from his monitor, either.

***********

** **

** _Longworth House Office Building_ **

** _15 Independence Ave SE_ **

** _Washington DC_ **

** _April 11th, 2013 -- 10:02 AM_ **

Room 1100 of the Longworth Building was where Congress slogged through the labyrinth-like apparatus known as Intelligence Oversight. Bored-beyond-belief committee members listened as the Director of X Agency or General Y of the Z Task Force explained in dry, brittle language why the very fate of America and democracy itself depended on more funding and expanded timelines. Rarely did the reporters who covered such meetings ever really see the true back-and-forth which took place beneath the subtext.

John Davos impatiently sat through the testimonies, rarely bothering to actually listen. When the committee chairman, the ancient and befuddled Representative Keller, gaveled the meeting to an end, Davos scooped up his briefcase and hurried to the front table where the witnesses were preparing their exit.

Hanover Gordon, the Deputy Director of the CIA cast a suspicious eye over the approaching Congressman. Gordon was in his mid-seventies, but looked far, far older. It was unusual for such an older man to take a deputy position in any federal agency, but Davos suspected Gordon liked the expanded powers without the spotlight of the top position. Gordon was a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.

“A word, Hanover?” Davos said pleasantly.

***********

** **

** _Dumbarton Oaks Park_ **

** _Washington DC_ **

** _April 11th, 2013 -- 11:25 AM_ **

The two men left the Longworth Building separately, taking government cars up to Dumbarton Oaks Park, far from Washington’s center of power. Davos arrived first, waiting another thirty minutes on a park bench. He turned his smartphone off.

And then Hanover Gordon appeared, shuffling and with a cane. Davos wondered if the old guy used the cane as a prop or actually needed it. _You never can tell with spies,_ he thought.

The two men assumed seats on a park bench. Just two gentlemen out enjoying the sunshine.

“John,” Gordon said plainly, opening up negotiations.

“I need something from you,” Davos began. “There’s a woman, a police officer…”

***********

** **

** _Falls Church, Virginia_ **

** _A Suburb of Washington DC_ **

** _April 14th, 2013 -- 12:13 PM_ **

Grace O’Mara stepped through the front door, the exhaustion of the day catching up with her.

“Yo, officer,” Caleb, her husband, remarked. “Fancy seeing you in this ‘hood.” He clicked off the TV and rose from the couch.

Grace scowled. Was Caleb **_mocking_** her? She really wasn’t in the mood.

It had been a long, long, long day. Recently, the MPD (Metropolitan Police Department) was being tasked for a lot of extra duties, especially now that the White House and Congress were speeding toward a Federal Government shutdown. Suddenly, MPD was asked to do UN security. And then be security guards for the Department of Interior. And then help out the rent-a-cops at the Smithsonian. It was rumored that MPD officers would be pulled into Congressional Detail before much longer.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Caleb said quickly. “You look beat.”

“Yeah,” sighed Grace. She went to sink into the couch.

“Whoa, wait, don’t sit,” her husband cried.

“Caleb,” the policewoman grumbled, “honey, I have been on my feet-“

“What I meant was,” Caleb interrupted, “is that I kept dinner warm for you.”

Grace’s sour mood dissolved. “You… what?” she asked.

Caleb moved to their small dining room, clicking on the light. The table was set with plates, silverware, salads, and wine. “The chicken’s warming in the oven,” he said, already bustling to get things ready.

Touched, Grace couldn’t resist a grateful smile. How many husbands would have a warm meal waiting for their wives **_after midnight?_** She was lucky indeed.

***********

** _CNN Studios_ **

** _820 1st St NE, Washington DC_ **

** _May 6th, 2013 -- 3:21 PM_ **

** _Three weeks later…_ **

John Davos waited impatiently in the CNN greenroom, absently twirling his smartphone in his hands.

The beautiful young production assistant approached, clearly sensing his displeasure. “It’ll be just another minute before you go on the air, Congressman,” she assured him.

“Mmgh,” Davos grunted, eyeing the woman’s slender figure and full chest. She was hot, to be sure.

_Focus!_ Davos thought to himself.

Ever since that night when he’d been pulled over by Officer Grace O’Mara, Davos’ reputation had nosedived. The pollsters had told him in no uncertain terms that if we wanted to resuscitate his image, he’d better step up his press appearances to talk about other issues. **_Any_** issues. Anything that made it seem like he had concerns for the common people outside of Washington DC.

When he didn’t return her smile, the young and pretty assistant turned and hurriedly exited. Davos kept his eyes latched onto her tight little bottom until it had bounced out of sight.

The smartphone rang. A 703 area code. Northern Virginia. Langley.

Davos connected, his heart racing. “You’re all set?” he asked immediately.

“_Everything is set, Congressman,_” Hanover Gordon’s old, tired voice replied. “_But you’re sure you want to go through-_“

“Make it happen,” snapped Davos, and then hung up.

***********

** _Connecticut and Florida Avenues, Washington DC_ **

** _May 7th, 2013 -- 10:12 PM_ **

The complaint from the tenant over Bethesda Bagels proved to be a non-event. A neighbor was blasting their hip-hop too loudly. By the time Officers Grace O’Mara and Tyrone Greer had responded, the drama was already over. The two officers took down some statements, then returned to their police cruiser.

“Hoo boy,” Greer moaned, rubbing his eyes.

Grace smiled grimly at her partner. Greer had been bracing for a domestic disturbance, maybe even something with gunfire. The stress of long hours and responding to these calls was getting to him. It was getting to everyone on MPD.

“Hey,” Grace said softly. “You want a coffee? On me.”

Greer exhaled. “How ‘bout just a water?” he suggested. “I don’t want no caffeine this late at night.”

“Water, got it.”

The beautiful policewoman stepped from their cruiser, moving toward the bagel shop.

Suddenly, a black SUV with diplomatic plates screeched to a stop at the corner. A young man leapt out of the back seat, glanced at Grace, then fled north, against the flow of traffic. The SUV rolled along its way. It all happened in less than a second.

Grace hesitated, uncertain what she’d just seen. There was nothing technically illegal here… just really suspicious.

In any event, the young man was long gone, as was the SUV. Greer hadn’t even looked up in time to see either.

***********

** _MPD Second District Station_ **

** _3320 Idaho Avenue, NW, Washington DC_ **

** _May 9th, 2013 -- 8:48 AM_ **

“Greer, you about ready to go?” Grace shouted into the men’s locker room.

Her partner yelled back something in the affirmative, but Grace’s department-issued cell phone vibed. Surprised, she glanced at the screen. It was from Jack Holaran, her captain: **_Come by my office pls?_**

Grace shifted her jaw. Holaran wouldn’t text her unless there was something up.

“Tyrone,” she bellowed back into the locker room. “Take five, I’ll be right back.”

***********

Holaran’s office was on the top floor. Cramped, uncomfortable, and hopelessly messy, the little room’s appearance resembled the rumpled captain himself.

“Chief?” Grace said, sticking her head in the door.

The captain gestured. “Come in. Shut the door.”

_Uh-oh_, thought the policewoman. _No good conversation ever begins with those words._

There were two other men in the office, both sitting on the beaten couch, both looking miserable. They also wore black suits with shining black wingtips shoes.

Feds. Grace swallowed.

“Relax,” Holaran said quickly, putting up both hands. “You ain’t in trouble. We ain’t being investigated. These gentlemen are from our friends over at Langley.“

“CIA?” Grace said, her eyes wide.

“Officer O’Mara,” the taller of the suits said, standing up. He offered his hand, then drew an ID badge from his jacket pocket.

He was CIA, alright.

“Look, we apologize for this intrusion,” he said, and he did seem genuinely sorry. “We were hoping to ask a few quick questions. Last Tuesday night… did you seen a young white man dropped off from an SUV, somewhere up on Connecticut?”

Grace stared at the man, the wheels in her head turning.

“Oh yeah,” she exclaimed. “Yeah, the SUV had diplo plates. I remember that.”

“Did you see the guy’s face?” the suit said carefully.

Grace nodded. “Just for a second. He took off like a scalded cat.”

The two suits exchanged a dark glance. Then the taller spook stepped forward.

“I have more questions,” he said carefully.

Feeling wary, Grace shrugged. “Shoot.”

Both suits took out notebooks and began taking notes. How much did the man weigh? How tall was he? How old? Was his jacket brown or dark blue? What was he carrying?

And what about the SUV? It had Diplo plates… which country? Did the plates have a parking sticker? Was the vehicle armored?

The flood of questions was too much for Grace. “I told you,” she said, slightly exasperated, “all of this happened for a second. After sundown.”

The taller suit nodded. “Please understand, officer,” he said gently, “you may be our only eyewitness to this… event. I can’t discuss it, but it has national security connections. **_Serious_** connections.”

“Oh,” Grace said, feeling taken aback.

“Officer,” the second suit ventured, “would you be willing to come to our office to discuss this in more detail? I realize this is highly irregular, but… Well, its important.” He shrugged. “I can’t be more specific than that.”

Captain Holaran’s brow furrowed. “If you’re requesting Officer O’Mara-“

“She’s an eyewitness,” the first suit cut in gruffly. “Jack, I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate. We really need her help with this.”

He looked at Grace directly, his eyes imploring her. “Please.”

Grace shrugged. “Its okay, captain,” she volunteered. “I’ll do it.”

***********


	3. Congressional Detail:  Chapter Two

** _MPD Second District Station_ **

** _3320 Idaho Avenue, NW, Washington DC_ **

** _May 10th, 2013 -- 9:23 AM_ **

The CIA and MPD always had a contentious relationship, and the few times when their operations intersected, neither side really trusted the other. The MPD, in particular, usually became the more frustrated party, if only because the CIA could claim national security and the cops couldn’t. So it made Captain Holaran nervous when Grace told him she was being invited to Langley the next day.

“You want to take one of our lawyers with you?” the captain asked worriedly. “Or Greer?”

“I’ll be fine,” Grace assured him. “And if I’m not back in four hours, you’ll know where to look. Besides, chief, maybe this is our opportunity to do a favor for the spooks.”

“Hey, don’t forget,” Holaran reminded her, “you’re on Congressional Detail tonight.”

The policewoman wanted to swear aloud. “Awwwww…!” she groused.

Congressional Detail was the latest overtime duty that every MPD officer dreaded. Officially, Congress had its own police force, responsible for the security of Senators and Congresspeople. But with the federal budget in disarray, the Capital Hill police were furloughed for any special assignment. Which meant MPD officers had to pick up the slack.

In other words, Congressional Detail was a fancy term for when MPD officers had to play bodyguards for members of Congress that went outside Capitol Hill. It was an overglorified babysitting job.

“You’re overdue, O’Mara,” Holaran snapped. “Congressman John Davos. Apparently, he’s going to a black tie fundraiser or something. So make sure to swing home and get a nice dress.”

“I don’t have a nice dress,” snapped Grace.

“Well, you can’t go in formals,” the captain replied.

***********

** _CIA Headquarters_ **

** _Langley, Virginia, 20 minutes outside Washington DC_ **

** _May 10th, 2013 -- 10:03 AM_ **

The CIA guys had provided special driving instructions and a parking badge. Grace made the drive out to Langley herself, leaving her uniform and her partner behind. She wore short sleeves, gray slacks, and short heels. Something semi-professional which still represented DC’s finest. With luck, she would look at some photographs, some mug shots, agree to testify to a grand jury in six months’ time, and that would be it.

The guards at the west gate checked Grace’s profile and ID, then directed her to a specific wing. Impressively, there was a woman in a gray suit and glasses waiting for her as she approached reception, who recognized her, and greeted her warmly.

“Right this way,” the woman said. “I’m Agent Mathers. Well, Beth. Please call me Beth.”

“I’m Grace,” The policewoman replied.

Beth led Grace past the security desk, down a corridor decorated with surprisingly fashionable art, then past another security desk, then another corridor, and so on. At each checkpoint, Beth flashed a smile and an ID badge, and the guards waved both women through.

“I can’t talk about this case,” Beth confided, “but we have a tight deadline. I’m really grateful you are willing to come in and talk with us, officer.”

“Sure,” Grace replied. To make conversation, she added, “So I guess I can’t ask you-“

“No,” Beth said quickly. And firmly. But at least she did it with a smile.

***********

Their journey ended in a small, softly-lit room. Inside, there was a table with two ringbinders on it, three metal chairs, plus a larger recliner off to one side. A large, tinted mirror dominated one wall. Grace gazed at the mirror, immediately suspicious.

“Oh, geez. I’m sorry about that,” Beth said, nodding at the mirror. She looked embarrassed. “Every conference room here at Langley has one. There’s no-one behind the glass, scrutinizing our conversation. I promise you.”

“Are we being recorded?” Grace said suddenly, the thought just occurring to her.

“Recording conversations is standard practice,” Beth admitted. “But I can have the recordings disabled, if that makes you more comfortable?” She smiled hopefully.

“No, no, its fine,” Grace assured her, suddenly feeling silly.

“Okay. Let’s get down to business,” Beth said, sitting at the table. “I have to let you know as a matter of policy that what we discuss in this room in no way…” And she rattled off a long stream of legalese which she’d clearly committed to memory. Grace nodded.

“Some paperwork…” Beth said, sliding forms across the table at Grace.

The beautiful police officer skimmed the papers. Impressively, these looked almost exactly the same as the witness identification forms that the MPD used. When she was satisfied, she signed.

“Thank you,” said Agent Beth, and opened the first ringbinder. “Now: Can you look at these and tell me if anything or anyone you see here appears familiar? Take your time.”

There were mug shots of several young white men, all with blank expressions, all labeled with a five-digit number. Not one looked familiar.

“Okay…” said Beth. “Now how about these…?”

The second ringbinder more photographs of young men. Then, abruptly, the pictures switched to black SUVs, all photographed from behind. None of these rang any bells for Grace, either.

Grace pushed the book aside. “Sorry,” she said plainly.

Beth couldn’t hide the worried look in her face. “Are you **_sure?_**” the agent asked carefully.

“Sorry,” Grace said again. “I can go through them once more, but…”

Beth removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “No, you were very through,” she said, and there was a great weight in her voice.

Grace felt terrible.

“Officer,” Beth said, looking at the MPD officer directly, “I would be asking you this if things weren’t serious. But would you consent to being hypnotized? Hypnosis can enhance your memory. That might help us with the details we need.”

Grace drew back a little. Hypnotized? She hadn’t considered that. She’d never been hypnotized before, and she certainly wasn’t eager to give it a try.

“Please, Grace,” Beth implored. The agent’s eyes practically begged wordlessly.

“I, uh…” Grace stalled, wondering if she could reach out to Captain Holaran and ask his opinion. No doubt the Cap would advise her to return to the District _posthaste_.

On the other hand… Beth seemed sincere. And desperate. What if another 9/11 was at stake here?

Grace bit her lip. “Fine,” she consented. “I’ll remember everything after the hypnotism, right?”

“Absolutely,” Beth promised, relief flooding her expression. “Thank you so much, Grace. Let me get our specialist, this won’t be a minute. You’ll be heading home within an hour.”

The pretty young agent scooped up the ringbinders and papers, then disappearing out into the corridor. Grace couldn’t help steal a glance at that tinted mirror, wondering if there was indeed someone back there. At the prescient house, perps were **_always_** told the other side of the mirror was vacant, no matter what.

***********

Beth returned to the conference room with a small man, who was balding and in his forties. The man pulled a tall cart behind him. He seemed meek and pleasant and smiled warmly at Grace when he entered.

“This is Agent Yallow,” Beth introduced. “He’ll be conducting the session. He’s a really nice guy, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Yallow said to Grace, offering the weakest handshake imaginable. “Thank you so much for helping us on this.”

The smaller agent wheeled his cart before the recliner. A small, silver machine that looked like a squatting, three-eyed robot was atop the cart.

“If you would…” Yallow said to the MPD officer, and indicated the puffy chair. Meanwhile, Beth was setting up what looked like a small videocamera.

Grace sat in the recliner, now feeling nervous. All of these machines were necessary to hypnotize her?

At least the chair was super comfortable.

“Is this a special, government-issue interrogation chair?” Grace joked, wishing she didn’t feel so tense.

“Mmm?” Beth said, still fiddling with the camera. “No. Lay-Z-Boy. We got it from Sears. Why?”

“Oh,” Grace mumbled. Somehow it was weird to know that the Central Intelligence Agency bought furniture at the mall.

Yallow dimmed the lights, then positioned the robot directly before Grace. The device was right at Grace’s eye level.

“Ready?” he asked both women.

“Ready,” Beth replied, switching on her camera.

“Sure,” Grace replied, her nervousness increasing.

Yallow pressed a button on his gizmo, and sure enough, the robot’s eyes began to blink in different colors and swirl about. A soft pulse hummed from within the room.

“Just focus your eyes on the lights,” Yallow said conversationally, moving away from Grace’s field of vision. “Let your mind go blank. Let yourself relax… Relax… Relax…”

Grace let out a slow, long breath. She was jittery. Getting hypnotized suddenly seemed to be the height of stupidity. What was she thinking? Grace was not one for wild tales of CIA mind control or thought experiments, but now her imagination was getting the better of her. Why-

Yallow appeared at Grace’s side, and without warning, something cold was pressed against her arm. The policewoman felt a jab in her skin. She’d been injected with a needle!

“Hey!” she cried.

In horror, Grace saw the syringe in Yallow’s hand empty. There was a cold rush as the drug entered her vein.

“Don’t you worry,” Yallow told her. “That’s just something to help you relax… concentrate… relax… relax…” He removed the needle, and handed it to Beth.

Grace struggled to rise from the chair, but it was too late. A magical, dull tingling swept through her arm, then her torso, then through her entire body. She felt light-headed. The lights danced before her, creating weird swirling shapes in the dark air. Yallow’s voice droned on, the words becoming both louder and silent at the same time.

“You will relax,” Yallow told Grace gently. “You will let go, allow yourself to freely flow with the sound of my voice. All you want to do is to relax and concentrate, relax and concentrate.”

The drug went to work on sedating Grace’s mind. Her vision swam. Her thoughts winked out. Before her, the robot lights glowed brightly, sucking her will from her. She was losing control. Her body felt as it was sinking down into the chair. She couldn’t budge.

“And now, Grace,” Yallow’s kind voice said directly into her mind, “you will surrender and obey. Your mind is descending into deep sleep, and you will do nothing but obey the sound of my voice. Close your eyes, and **_sleeeep..._**”

Grace obeyed.

***********

Behind the mirror, John Davos watched as Grace O’Mara’s eyes slowly closed. The beautiful MPD officer was completely still in the chair. That mousey Yallow man was now bending over her, speaking to her in a rapid, commanding voice.

Davos tapped his foot impatiently. “That’s it?” he growled. “She’s under?”

Deputy Director Gordon, the only other person in the room and within this operation, scowled. “Calm yourself, John,” he cautioned. “You’ll get your woman. My people are experts.”

There was a silence as both men watched the agents go to work programming Grace’s mind.

This was a win-win-win, Davos reasoned to himself. He would get laid by the woman of his obsession, something his country owed him. After today, Gordon and the CIA secured the funding they needed to check Iranian influence in… Iraq? Right, Iraq. And the American people were a little safer for the whole enterprise. What was wrong with any of this?

***********


	4. Congressional Detail:  Chapter Three

** _MPD Second District Station_ **

** _3320 Idaho Avenue, NW, Washington DC_ **

** _May 10th, 2013 -- 1:09 PM_ **

“Hey there, Agent O’Mara,” Greer teased when Grace appeared at his desk. “You back from hanging with the spooks?”

“Very funny,” Grace rolled her eyes.

“Seriously, how’d it go?” Greer wanted to know.

Grace pursed her lips together. “It really wasn’t anything, Tyrone. All the CIA people did was have me do was look at photographs. From a ringbinder.”

The beautiful young officer shook her head, still feeling perplexed.

“They called you out to Langley for **_that?_**” exclaimed Greer. “Damn. Why couldn’t they have brought the binders here? Save you the trouble?”

“They were… top secret images, I guess,” Grace shrugged. “Anyway, the whole thing was over in, like, five minutes. It literally took more time to get through security than to examine their pictures.”

Greer laughed. “I’ll bet!”

***********

The two partners took a late lunch, then headed back to the stationhouse to get ready for a patrol. Captain Holaran happened to bump into both of them in the lobby.

“Hey, O’Mara,” he growled when he saw Grace. “You didn’t forget, right?”

Grace drew a blank. “Chief?”

“You’ve got Congressman Davos’ Congressional Detail tonight. Seven PM.”

“Oh, fuck!” Grace swore. After the CIA, she’d completely forgotten that she was supposed to swing home to snatch a dress.

Holaran gave her a look. “Yeah, I thought it would slip your mind. Funny thing, though… Davos’ people sent over a dress for you. They sent matching shoes, a purse… the whole outfit.”

That was odd. “Wait, what?” Grace spluttered.

Shaking his head, Holaran said, “Actually, they sent over wardrobe for everyone assigned to Davos’ detail. Apparently, the last time we had officers dress themselves for one of these ritzy fundraisers, our MPD guys looked like their mothers had dressed them for junior prom.”

“They sent over a suit for me too?” Greer asked, surprised.

“Yeah, a nice one,” the captain groused. “So don’t go spilling anything on it, hear me? The department can’t afford the dry cleaning bill.”

Grace and Greer exchanged glances. This was superweird. “Chief, how’d Davos’ people even get our measurements?”

“They pulled city records,” was the reply. “Your uniform sizes are in there.”

Oh.

***********

Grace’s jaw dropped when she saw the dress.

Davos’ dress was **_small_** and **_tight_**. Inky black and shimmering, it barely stretched to cover Grace’s chest, stomach, hips, and butt… but nothing else. Her entire legs, arms, shoulders, and back were completely exposed. Her cleavage was popping. The neckline plunged down and the hemline soared up. If Grace bent over or sat down, there was a good chance she exposed something private.

Studying herself in the bodylength mirror, Grace frowned when she realized that her panty lines were clearly visible under the taught black fabric.

An odd feeling crept into the policewoman’s mind. Not knowing why she did so, Grace pulled up the dress, shimmied out of her underwear, then slid the dress back over his hips and bottom.

There. Now she looked sleek from head to toe. Definitely sexy.

_What are you doing?_ a shocked voice inside Grace’s head cried out. _You can’t go out in public wearing this dress without underwear! If this dress rides up even an inch, you’ll be showing off too much!_

But for some reason, Grace couldn’t resist the urge to leave her underwear behind.

***********

“**_Holy shit,_**” Greer gaped when he saw Grace, complete with the shoes and the purse, and with her hair pinned up.

“Eyes forward, mister,” Grace snapped.

“Grace, honey, seriously, you look…” Greer whistled, shaking his head. “Remember that time we busted all those call girls at the Ritz-Carlton? Well-“

“Shut up!” his partner said firmly. “You look like the world’s nerdiest penguin.”

But at least Greer’s tuxedo wasn’t in danger of revealing his private parts if he stretched or raised his arms.

Secretly, Grace thought it was nice to know that she could still turn heads. For some reason, she was feeling… outgoing. Sexy. There was no denying that Greer was right, this outfit was meant to show off as much of her nude body as possible.

***********

Congressman Davos’ office had requested four undercover officers, each dressed up in formalwear for a fundraiser. The detail consisted of Grace, Greer, plus Hanks and Collins, two detectives from the 101. The men were all in matching black tuxedos, all from the same tailor.

“Wowza,” Collins said when he spotted Grace. His eyes almost popped.

“Fuckin’ A,” mugged Hanks. “Sheesh, where do you keep your weapon?”

Grace rolled her eyes and ignored the question.

“You guys ready?” their driver said. “We’re late!”

***********

** _Longworth House Office Building_ **

** _15 Independence Ave SE_ **

** _Washington DC_ **

** _May 10th, 2013 -- 7:39 PM_ **

“Thanks for coming, guys,” a heavyset man greeted the MPD officers at the door of Congressman Davos’ office. “We appreciate it. I’m Bill Kruger, chief-of-staff for Congressman Davos.”

Quick introductions were made. Was it Grace’s imagination, or did Mr. Kruger flinch when she told him her own name?

“We’ll be heading over to the Sofitel Hotel shortly,” Kruger told the officers. “This is a party fundraiser, focusing on shoring up the women’s vote. So the Congressman will need to press the flesh and greet a lot of VIPs. All of this will happen within hotel security, so all you have to do is stay nearby and be ready in case someone starts any trouble. And there won’t be any trouble.”

“’cuse me, sir,” Greer cut in, “but how can you know that?”

Kruger scowled. “Because I do forty of these events a year. There is always a one percent chance that a jerk from the other political party will sneak in and try to glitterbomb the Congressman or something. But even then, there’s nothing to worry about. No-one can get a real weapon past the metal detectors.”

_Great,_ Grace thought dourly. _So I’m on guard duty in case a lone nutball appears with a baggie of confetti. What a wonderful use of my time._

Well, if all she had to do was stand close to Davos and watch the crowd, that was probably a good thing. Any sudden moves in this dress, and she doubted her modesty would remain intact.

***********

** _The Sofitel Hotel_ **

** _Lafayette Square, Washington DC _ **

** _May 10th, 2013 -- 8:37 PM_ **

With a shock, Grace recognized Congressman Davos at once. He was the conceited jerk who tried to bully his way out of that speeding ticket! Grace would have recognized that bullet-like bald head or cocky swagger anywhere. She slipped an ominous look at her partner, and instantly, she knew: Greer remembered Davos as well.

The MPD officers were huddled in the wings of a small stage. They were in the Sofitel Hotel Ballroom, one of the biggest and most opulent in Washington, and as far as Grace could tell, the joint was packed to capacity. Congressman Davos stood at the podium, throwing out rhetorical red meat to the crowd.

“**_And that’s why,_**” he thundered into his mike, “**_we are STANDING UP for the common people of America, FIGHTING to keep every last bit of the American Dream intact!_**”

The crowd clapped loudly.

“**_That’s right,_**” Davos continued, his voice rising. “**_THAT’S WHY I will tirelessly fight for the women of America. Because AMERICA is strongest when HER WOMEN are free and independent! Thank you!_**”

More loud applause. Davos waved, shook a few hands at the lip of the stage, milking the moment.

“He’s a good speaker,” Greer murmured to Grace.

“He is,” the female cop allowed. “Seems like a bit of an asshole, though.”

_America is strongest when her women are free and independent?_ she thought. Davos was more of a sexist pig than she originally thought. He was probably the pervert who picked out the black dress.

The air conditioning swirled about Grace’s legs, chilling her exposed undercarriage. Not for the last time, the beautiful young officer cursed herself for leaving her panties back at the station.

***********

Congressman Davos finally pulled himself away from the crowd. The MPD officers stiffened as the bald legislator strode backstage. Right away, he spotted Grace, Greer, Hanks, and Collins.

Davos strode right up, offering Greer his hand. “John Davos,” he introduced himself.

“Sir,” Greer said formerly, his former military background kicking in. “We’re your detail for this evening.” He quickly named the other undercover officers.

As Davos stepped forward to shake her hand, Grace tensed. Would the slimy Congressman recognize her?

“Hi Grace, I’m John,” was all he said, before pivoting to greeting Hanks.

Well. It seemed that Davos had a bad memory for faces. Grace let out a slow breath.

***********

The rest of the evening was slow and boring. Grace had never been to a campaign fundraiser, and was dismayed to discover that it consisted mostly of political nerds swarming about to talk with the Congressman. The MPD officers stood off to the side as Davos backslapped, shook hands, signed memorabilia, posed for photos, and made a thousand tasteless jokes.

Bill Kruger had been right; the risk to Davos’ life was extremely low. Certainly no-one arrived with a glitterbomb.

“Fuckin’ A,” Grace heard Greer mutter under his breath. “Congressional detail is the pits. We better get time and a half for this.”

***********

After what seemed like hours, Davos ran out of gushing supporters. “C’mon,” he said to his police escorts, jerking his head toward the exit at the back of the ballroom.

Relieved, Grace followed the lanky Congressman to the rear door. Davos made one last oversized wave to the crowd, then ducked into the private corridor. The cops followed him.

“Nice job, guys,” Davos said dismissively to the MPD officers. “I always feel better knowing you have my back.”

“That’s it?” Hanks asked, looking almost grateful. “You’re not going back to the Capitol-“

“No, I have a room here for the night,” Davos said impatiently. “You guys are discharged.”

He tossed one hand, a _get-on-out-of-here_ gesture that didn’t display much respect or gratitude.

The four cops exchanged looks. “Uh, if you’re sure, Congressman,” Greer said. “In that case, we’ll-“

“Yeah, good night,” Davos replied, already striding away. There was an elevator bank down the corridor.

After he had gone, Collins said, “Seriously, we missed an evening with our families… for **_that?_**”

***********

Now officially off-duty, the weary undercover MPD’s trudged through the service corridors of the Sofitel Hotel. Greer pulled at his bow tie, clearly itching to rip it off.

“You guys know what?” Hanks grumbled. “I live in the opposite direction from the station. I’m just gonna go straight home.”

“What about returning the tux?” asked Collins.

Hanks made a disgusted face. “I’ll return it in the morning. If Davos doesn’t like that… fuck ‘im.”

Without another word, Hanks disappeared through an exit door.

“I think I’ll hit the hotel bar,” Collins said to no-one in particular, and then he was gone too.

“Come on, let’s get back to the station,” Greer yawned. “Our car is this way.”

Grace suddenly felt very strange. Her mind clouded over and it was difficult to think clearly.

“No,” she heard her own voice say. “You go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tyrone.”

Greer blinked at her. “Oh. You heading straight home, too?”

“Yes,” Grace said immediately.

Her partner shrugged. “Suit yourself. See you in the AM, Grace.”

***********

Now the beautiful police officer moved through the back hallways of the Sofitel with a strange certainty. She was clear-headed and resolved, yet felt as if she were in a dream. She had no control over her own actions… but was not alarmed in the slightest. All seemed right with the world.

Grace turned a corner, retracing her steps to the rear exit of the ballroom.

There, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, was Congressman Davos. His bald head glinted in the cheap florescent lighting.

Without knowing why she did this, Grace walked straight up to the lawmaker. Almost a full head taller than she, Davos gazed down at her, a burning desire in his eyes.

Through the walls, one could hear the muffled sound of the fundraiser roiling on. But here, the Congressman and policewoman were completely alone. 

“Good to see you again, officer,” Davos said.

While the sentence was a simple one, there seemed to be a universe of feelings woven between those words. As if Davos had been rehearsing this moment over and over in his mind.

“Congressman,” Grace replied, nodding her head once.

Davos grinned, and set one of his enormous hands on Grace’s shoulder.

Suddenly, Grace’s mind spun. She was no longer certain who she was, where she was, what she was doing. Her feelings, already tranquilized, melted away into a mixture of awe, reverence, and submission. She stared up into Davos’ eyes, mesmerized.

The Congressman leaned forward and kissed her. It was a deep, greedy, almost wolf-like kiss. As if he were climing a prize that he’d long coveted. Grace kissed him back.

While the kiss lingered, Davos stepped closer. His eager hands gripped Grace’s shoulders, then rippled down her chest, over her breasts, then her hips, finally coming to rest on her buttocks. He stepped closer, to press their two bodies together.

Grace made no effort to resist him. Indeed, her dazed mind couldn’t fathom pulling away from this embrace. She simply continued kissing, her arms at her sides. She felt as if she had no will of her own.

Grinning even while kissing, Davos’ fingers grasped the bottom of the little black dress, pulling it upwards. Grace felt cool air conditioning on her hips, pelvis, and buttocks. Then the Congressman’s hands were cupping her butt again, delightfully squeezing her in a playful manner.

Suddenly, the Congressman broke the kiss. “Fuck me,” he gasped, “you’re even hotter than I’d dreamed.”

“Yes, master,” Grace heard herself say.

“Come with me,” demanded Davos.

With Grace obediently in tow – naked from the hips on down – Davos moved to the elevators. He produced a security badge and swiped it before a scanner. There was a cheerful **_ding!_** as one of elevators opened.

Without having to be told, Grace moved inside. Davos followed her, again swiping his badge on the inner control panel.

The elevator began to rise. It was a glass-lined carriage, and after the first floor, the elevator shaft disappeared, and Grace was gazing out across a nighttime Washington DC. A lone man, a young man, standing in the street spotted her as she ascended, and she saw him gape in astonishment at her almost-nude body.

“C’mere,” Davos demanded, spinning Grace around.

Now the Congressman’s hands were pulling at the top of the dress, forcing it down over her breasts, then pushing the inky black cloth even further down her torso. Now she had perhaps nine inches of the garment wrapped about her stomach, nothing more.

Davos grunted, and was kissing and groping her again. Grace closed her eyes, dimly confused why all of this felt okay. And yet not okay.

She could not remember her husband, Caleb, nor their life together. In fact, as Davos tried to ravish her in the elevator, Grace’s recollections of her entire life were fading from her mind. She was a slave, happy to service her master, dedicated solely to his lustful pleasures. Yes, she would be thrilled if he wanted her in bed tonight. She would love it.

Grace sighed, finding her arms circling around Davos’ neck. She leaned into his embrace.

The elevator came to a rest and the doors slid open. Neither Grace nor her master noticed.

At first. Suddenly looking up, Davos muttered, “Fuck.”

He grabbed Grace’s hand, propelling the mesmerized policewoman into the waiting corridor.

They were on the penthouse level, where only a handful of doors were visible. Nonetheless, if just one of them were to open and Davos was spotted, well… There was no amount of PR that could repair that kind of political damage. The Congressman hurried down the lavish corridor, Grace bouncing along behind him.

Amazingly, the master and slave were not spotted. Davos swiped his ID at Suite 10E, and shoved Grace inside.

“Get completely naked,” he growled at her once the door was firmly shut behind them.

“Yes master,” Grace promised.

Davos’ command was an irresistible directive in her mind. Grace’s thin fingers found her dress’ zipper, and soon the shimmering black outfit was cast down onto the thick carpet. She smoothly stepped out of her heels, then walked through the suite’s sitting room. The master bedroom was the first door to her left.

The enormous bed was fit for an emperor. Easily large enough for a horse, the mattress seemed ridiculously large and soft. Grace threw back the top covers, impressed to find deep red satin sheets inside. She climbed onto the bed, taking her time, and enjoying the comfort beneath her skin.

Footfalls approached. Davos swaggered into the bedroom, appreciatively studying Grace’s nude ass. In the gentle lighting, her smooth skin was beautiful and sensuous. The Congressman grinned, then took a stiff gulp from the whiskey decanter in his hands.

“Stop,” he demanded. “Lie on your back.”

“Yes master,” the hypnotized woman murmured.

She obediently lowered herself onto the red sheets, carefully placing her head on one pillow.

“Nice, nice,” Davos mumbled, his eyes sweeping over Grace again and again. “God… you’re even hotter than I remembered.”

“Thank you, master,” whispered Grace.

“Play with yourself,” demanded the Congressman. “I want to see your fingers in your pussy.”

The directive could not be disobeyed. Grace spread her legs wide, already sliding her right hand down her stomach.

Her fingers dipped into her vagina, and Grace was surprised to find that she was already wet. Very wet. She was not a woman who enjoyed masturbating, but now under the control of the hypnosis, she began to go to work on herself.

Davos stared, the whiskey decanter forgotten in his hand.

Grace fingered herself playfully, enjoying the physical sensations that were beginning to sprout. She heard herself sigh, and she pushed her head further back into the pillow. Her shoulder and arm muscles were beginning to tense.

Erotic feelings swept through the policewoman. She imagined being with a thousand different lovers, each kissing her or caressing her or fucking her in a unique, wonderful way. She felt alive, sensuous, like the most desirable woman in the world. Her breathing quickened.

Without warning, her vagina began shooting waves of delight through Grace’s tight little body. She cried out, both moaning and shouting cries of wordless joy. Her muscles trembled. Her fingers danced faster.

“Oh… fuck,” she heard herself groan. “Fuck, yeah, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Grace was close. Very close.

The policewoman began thrashing her head from side to side, her mouth thrown wide open, her eyes screwed tightly shut. The orgasm was on its way. Grace pressed harder, feeling the passion overwhelm her.

Briefly, she thought of a day, long ago in high school, when her then-boyfriend had lured her over to his bedroom. They’d stripped off their clothes, kissing like mad people, and his hands had wandered everywhere on her body. Then, when she was ready and wanted him, he’d slipped his cock inside her and started pumping. The moment had been perfect. His penis in her vagina felt like a key slipping into a lock. **_Perfect_** for one another. Each ideally crafted to match the other’s physical shape. A sexual yin and yang. Unity. She had came at the exact same time as her boyfriend.

And now, in the modern moment, thinking about that orgasm from long ago, Grace lost all control. Her vagina sang out and erupted into bliss that rocked her trembling body. Grace shrieked, cumming so hard, she actually trembled on the mattress. Her toes stretched as hard as they could, and her free left hand clawed at the bed. She kicked in delight.

The orgasm was intense, but long. Grace roiled in its grip for what felt like hours. The more she stoked herself, the longer she was able to tease out her climax. She laughed, tears streaming down the sides of her face.

Suddenly Davos shoved her right hand aside. The Congressman was naked, scrambling to get on top of her, his own cock rigid and ready.

Surprised, Grace tried to respond to his ravishing lips, which were sweeping over her chest and neck. Her own orgasm was not yet spent.

And then Davos entered her. He did not do so tenderly, as he was extremely aroused and cared nothing for Grace’s comfort. Luckily, she was fully lubricated. His sudden ramming did not hurt. She seized her master by his shoulders, leaned in, and started to fuck him back.

Although Davos was on top and thus had the physical control, it was hard to say which of the two lovers was copulating harder. Grace’s muscles went into overtime, somehow moving her own hips up and down, in time to Davos’ thrusts. The surprised Congressman did his best to hang on, and redoubled his efforts.

And to her own amazement, Grace came again. Her body, while having thrown a sexual celebration not a minute ago, suddenly found the energy to celebrate again. Perhaps it was the hypnosis in Grace’s mind which commanded her to feel that chemical ecstasy once more. Or perhaps the little woman had sexual powers which she did not recognize. Whatever the case, Grace’s body rebounded against Davos’, and she tasted supreme delight again.

***********


	5. Congressional Detail:  Afterthoughts

** _No, “Congressional Detail” wasn’t meant to end on the sex scene. I wanted to carry the story further, to explore what happens after Grace emerges from her forced seduction. That’s where the most interesting part of the narrative would lie._ **

** _“Detail” was my attempt to write a brooding political thriller. In it, I return to one of my favorite themes: A powerful man becomes obsessed with a pretty young woman, and abuses the power of hypnosis to seduce her. While plotting, I fell in love with the opening scene where Grace cuts Congressman Davos down to size. And for some reason, I immediately liked Hanover Gordon, the old CIA director who makes a deal with the devil for the sake of funding some dreadful black ops mission. He doesn’t get much page time, but I loved it whenever I could squeeze him into a scene._ **

** _I wrote three (incomplete) drafts of “Congressional Detail,” but the tale never came alive on the page. I’ve since come to the reluctant conclusion that this story has some intractable problems._ **

** _The biggest issue is Grace. Every time I revised “Detail,” she always turned out flat and uninteresting. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why._ **

** _But after a little reflection, the answer is obvious: Grace is an entirely passive character. After the opening scene, she never makes a choice that moves the plot. Instead, other characters set things in motion, and poor Grace is just swept along. She has no objective, no motivations. She isn’t trying to achieve anything or complete a task._ **

** _Gah! This is fairly fundamental mistake on my part, and I should have spotted it on Day One. Readers want a main character to be active, to be making decisions, to be laboring toward some goal. Watching a character working to overcome obstacles to get what they want is what makes them interesting. Grace does none of these things, which is why she feels fairly hollow to me._ **

** _How could this problem be solved? Hmm._ **

** _Musing on it now, I think Grace needs a purpose, something to strive for in the story. Perhaps she wants to leave the MPD to join the Secret Service? (Very hard to do.) In that case, Davos could serve on a House committee that would allow him to meddle in Grace’s application. That might put Grace in a position where she might volunteer to work with Davos’ people, and her police skills might come into play when she realizes that there’s something fishy going on._ **

** _Or maybe Grace is burned out and wants to leave MPD and Washington and go and live on a farm with Caleb, her husband. The “I want to escape” motivation is a pretty strong one, and would definitely give her a driving reason to prevail in this story._ **

** _But because I didn’t give Grace an overarching purpose early on, I think this story would probably be a Page One rewrite to incorporate these ideas. I ran out of enthusiasm for such a heavy lift._ **

** _There’s another problem I have with “Detail,” albeit a more personal problem that you may not share. When I was a kid, I knew a few adults that worked on national security issues for the US government. At some point in their careers, they may have worked for the CIA. They were good, decent people._ **

** _When I first plotted “Detail,” I didn’t think at all about the implications of casting the CIA people as corrupt villains. But the more I began to reflect on it, the more uncomfortable I became with this as a plot point._ **

** _And finally, I never found an ending for “Detail” that I liked. Sometimes when I plot, I deliberately craft the beginning and middle of a tale, but then leave the ending wide open. If you set up everything just right, usually the characters will take the story off your hands and drive the plot to a much better conclusion than to what you might have dreamed up yourself._ **

** _But with “Congressional Detail,” I just didn’t see a satisfying conclusion. The story’s tone is pretty dark, which suggests a fairly downbeat ending. Perhaps Grace should lose her independence, and spend the rest of her days as Davos’ hypnotized mistress? I get a lot of requests for stories where the hypnotist permanently enslaves his beautiful victim, and I’m not opposed to those stories on principle… but poor Grace! I get depressed thinking about what life would be like for her, should that ending win out. Davos is such an irredeemable slimeball. Yeech._ **

** _So if Grace was to escape from Davos’ clutches, how would that go down? Suppose she realized what was happening to her and found a way to expose him. Davos would flame out in scandal, be trotted off to jail, or worse, maybe. And then we delve into the “Evil Congressman Demonstrates the Corruption of Justice in America” theme, and I find that pretty dark, too. Ugh._ **

** _So maybe Grace could shoot Davos? Or Greer rescues Grace somehow? Or perhaps the CIA turns on Davos and hypnotizes him to do something unseemly?_ **

** _No matter what ending I considered, I just couldn’t find one that I felt was a good fit. Hence, Grace’s fate was never decided._ **


	6. Esmerelda Amazonia: Chapter One

** _Las Vegas, February 1957_ **

Katie Packant let out a slow breath as she heard the front door open. That **_had_** to be her mother-in-law, here to relieve her. Thank goodness. Matilda lived just across the cul-de-sac, but it took her ages to come over. Katie lowered Baby Tommy back into his highchair, ignoring the whining from Sally and the crude insults from her oldest, Jack Jr.

Sally, however, was too much to ignore. “Mommi**_eeeeeeeee!_**” the two-year-old wailed, banging a spoon on the table. “I want appa-**_sause!!!_**”

“I’m **_boooooooooored!_**” announced Jack Jr., sitting at the other end of the table. He fired a cap gun into the air.

Baby Tommy began to cry, wriggling his fingers at his mother.

Katie swallowed that drowning feeling welling up inside her. Forcing a smile, she snatched the applesauce jar and poured a big pile of the yellow goo into Sally’s bowl. “Here you are, darling,” she said breathlessly.

Katie’s mother-in-law, Matilda, swept into the kitchen, her lips thinning as she glanced about. “I see you still haven’t cleaned,” she said to Katie, in lieu of an actual greeting.

“Hi Ma,” Katie managed, frantically searching everywhere on the table for Tommy’s pacifier. “We’re just having a little lunch-“

“I’m so **_boooooored!_**” Jack Jr. bellowed. “So bored, and **_no-one cares!_**”

Matilda scolded the boy, who was in no mood to be lectured. A screaming match ensued, with Baby Tommy hollering to top them both. Katie felt that vein in her temple begin to throb again.

Miraculously, the pacifier was under a pile of bibs. Katie popped it into Tommy’s open mouth, and his tiny little voice fell silent.

“Jack!” wailed Katie, feeling desperate. “Are you all done with lunch?”

Jack Jr. made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Then can you go and play nicely with your cowboys and Indians, honey?” Katie half-begged him, and tried to ignore the boy’s scowl as he leapt off his chair. Jack Jr.’s sneakers landed on the linoleum with a deliberately loud **_SMACK!_**

Katie sighed as she glanced at Jack Jr.’s plate. He had eaten the sliced roast beef but left the white bread; he had gulped down the Jell-O but completely ignored his apple slices.

“Why you let that boy disrespect you, I’ll never know,” sniffed Matilda.

“Ma,” Katie said, forcing patience and a strained smile, “thank you for watching the kids. I-I-I need to run Jack Sr.’s briefcase to him. I won’t be an hour.”

“Well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” replied Matilda, that one eyebrow arching higher than normal. Katie noticed Jack Sr.’s mother wasn’t removing her white gloves; that meant she wasn’t planning on touching the children.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed, and Katie realized she was running late. She kissed Tommy and Sally on their heads, then turned to ask her mother-in-law one last favor.

But then there was a crash behind her. Sally had dropped the applesauce down her dress and chair. The ceramic bowl lay shattered on the floor.

“I hope you don’t think **_I’m_** cleaning that up,” Matilda said.

******

By a miracle, Katie was able to thread her way down the Interstate and then onto Fremont St. without too much trouble. It was still before noon, before the tourists were out and about in force and clogging up everything. There wasn’t any room in the Stardust Casino parking lot, however, and Katie lost fifteen minutes circling, simply trying to find a spot.

The frantic search for parking almost drove poor Katie almost to tears. Ever since baby Tommy had been born, it seemed like all she did was take care of her husband, her children, her house, the dishes, the three family dogs, even her demanding mother-in-law. When was the last time Katie had grabbed a cup of coffee or gone to the movies with a friend? 1954? Earlier? She didn’t know. Some days, it felt like the universe was out to crush her with the weight of a thousand responsibilities and no gratitude.

There! A Ford Coupe vacated a spot. Katie slammed on the gas and wedged the Packard family station wagon into the available space, beating out another car just in the nick of time.

Okay, parking problem solved. On to the next crisis!

******

Now on foot, Katie raced at top speed through Stardust’s main entrance, Jack Sr’s briefcase in her tiny hands. Across the main lobby, there was a ballroom that was cordoned off from the public. Katie slipped behind the velvet rope.

“Hey, you!” a brash voice bellowed.

Two Stardust guards appeared, eyeing Katie.

“Ya can’t go in there, lady,” the older guard rumbled. He was a balding, heavy-set fellow, with a leathery face that radiated distrust.

“Oh, h-h-hello,” Katie nervously stammered.

“In there is the ’57 Vegas Talent Showcase, that’s for Vegas Entertainment types only,” the fat guard grunted, reaching to grab Katie by the arm. “Not the general public. The slot machines are back that way.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m- I’m Katie, er, Katie Packant,” the little housewife squeaked. “My h-h-husband is Jack Packant… You know, J-J-Jack Packant, the d-d-director of the Vegas Expo?” She was so nervous, and she clutched Jack’s briefcase like a drowning woman would hold a life preserver.

The older guard hesitated.

“S-s-see?” Katie stammered, pointing to Jack Sr.’s picture ID badge, which was hanging on the outside of the briefcase. “I j-j-just need to deliver this to my h-h-husband. See?”

The two guards looked at one another. “I see,” Heavy-Set said. “Okay, then. You go in and come right back, hear?”

“Thank you, thank you,” mumbled Katie, already casting her eyes downward. She slipped between the ballroom’s double doors.

“Hoo boy,” Heavy-Set said, shaking his head. “So that’s Old Man Packard’s lady, huh?”

The other guard was in his early twenties, thin and baby-faced. “Wow,” he said, staring after Katie. “She’s a looker, huh? And some body…” He wolf-whistled in appreciation.

“She ain’t bad,” Heavy-Set grudgingly admitted.

“She’s **_beautiful_**,” gushed the younger man. “So beautiful. Like a fairy-tale princess. Why, if I had a lady like that…“ He shook his head, lost in daydreams.

“You really need a date, Stan,” Heavy-Set frowned.

******

Inside the Stardust Ballroom, the ’57 Talent Showcase was in full swing.

It was complete pandemonium. The Showcase was an expo for casino owners and venue promoters to see all manner of out-of-town entertainers. These entertainers were performing like crazy, all hoping secure a booking somewhere on the Strip. Six different makeshift stages dotted the vast room’s parameter, with exhibitors walking about, sizing up the acts. There were ventriloquists, acrobats, comedians, jugglers, clowns, animal acts, impressionists, illusionists, conjurers, showgirls, mentalists, fortune-tellers, sword-swallowers, contortionists, card trick artists, and a fat guy who fired himself out of a cannon. It was like five different circuses mixed with adult entertainment, all fighting for your attention in the same noisy room.

Katie wildly looked about. Jack Sr. was somewhere in the throng, supposedly directing all this activity. From what she could see, he had his work cut out for him.

Desperate, she hurried into the crowd, clutching the briefcase against her chest. Katie was a small woman, thin but extremely fit, especially considering she was the mother of three. Right now, her height was working against her; it was extremely hard to see through this thick crowd.

“Hey!” a man’s voice, cried. Katie felt a hand clamp onto her forearm.

She was spun around, and found herself face-to-face with a large man. This fellow was tall, his big frame stuffed into an odd grey suit. He was perhaps fifty years old, with a strange beard and moustache design that looped about his wide mouth in an “O” shape. Otherwise, his head was bald.

“There you are!” the man exclaimed. “Hurry, the others are over by the changing room.”

Katie assumed this man must work with Jack Sr. Jack was one of Vegas’ talent managers, meaning he worked in conjunction with all the casinos and major entertainers. He worked with hundreds of people, but rarely more than once. Katie was never phased when yet another bizarre stranger told her, “Oh, I work with your husband.”

Katie allowed the tall man to lead her across the swirling floor of people, barely keeping up with his strides. He arrived at a small cluster of very scantily-clad young women, adjusting their costumes and looking nervous.

“There,” the man said to Katie, and he pointed to a tiny changing curtain. “You can get out of your street clothes back there. We go on in five-“

“**_Excuse_** me?” Katie shrieked, appalled.

The man blinked. “You are Caroline, aren’t ya? Caroline Diamond?”

It was at that exact moment when another young woman flew into the group. “So sorry I’m late,” she gasped, already pulling off her sweater. She disappeared behind the curtain.

“Oh,” the man exclaimed, realizing his mistake. “So sorry, lady. I thought you were one of my exotic dancers.”

Katie’s jaw dropped.

“You have the figure for it,” the man explained. “Say… have you ever thought about dancing? You’d make a fortune.”

“You would, honey,” one of the other girls seconded.

Katie was mortified to her core. She was proud of her figure, of course, and in another time and place, she might have appreciated the compliment. After Jack Jr. was born, she’d taken to rigorous exercise to keep in shape; that commitment had given her sleek thighs, a toned stomach, muscular arms, and the thinnest tummy on her block. Coupled with her beauty, Katie did indeed look like a professional dancer at first glance.

But **_exotic_** dancing? That meant taking off her clothes, right? That was slithering around on a stage, showing off her private parts for dollar bills?

Without another word, Katie spun on her heels, diving back into the crowd.

“Hey, just think about it!” the man shouted after her, hopefully.

******

It was another half an hour of fruitless searching before Katie located her husband. Jack Sr. was walking about the ballroom, chomping a cigar, furiously writing on a clipboard, and barking obscene orders to his train of assistants. Katie never knew what Jack did, exactly, but he always looked busy and highly stressed. Today he was especially agitated.

When Katie and Jack had first met, he was a lean boy of seventeen, with sandy-brown hair that always needed combing, a naturally muscular body, and handsome baby-like dimples embedded in his oh-so-cute face. Sure, in those days he had a temper, but it rarely flared up. He had been a sweet boyfriend and a great lover.

But that was fifteen years ago. And now it was hard to recognize the old Jack. While Katie had been careful to keep in shape, Jack hadn’t, and now his bulging stomach easily extended over his straining belt. His brown hair was falling out, and a double chin was gathering mass to become a triple chin. Jack always seemed to be red-faced and yelling, yelling at his work associates, yelling at other drivers on the road, yelling at his kids, and yes, yelling at his long-suffering wife.

Katie elbowed her way to Jack Sr.’s side. Typically, he didn’t notice her, even as she tugged at his elbow.

“No!” Jack bellowed to a scrawny young man in glasses and a plaid suitcoat. “I don’t need any more cocktail waitresses! I’ve got too fucking many of them! I need stuntmen! Get me stuntmen!”

“But-“ the poor man began.

“**_Stuntmen!!!_**” roared Jack, and the man instantly fled.

“D-D-Dear…?” Katie said for the twentieth time, hoping to catch Jack before he could berate the next talent agent.

“Eh?” grunted Jack, seemingly noticing his wife for the first time. “Whaddya you want?”

“Your briefcase, dear,” said Katie.

Jack rolled his eyes, bearing an exact resemblance to his older son. “Fuck me, Katie,” he spat. “I needed that **_hours_** ago! Where’ve you been?”

“I-I-I had-“ Katie started. Jack waved her off, already screaming at the next assistant clamoring for his attention.

“You should have put that in the car,” Jack snapped at Katie. “Its too late now. Don’t fuck up next time.” With a disgusted snarl, he added, “Get the fuck out of here. I’m working.”

******

Katie moved back across the ballroom, fighting tears. Why did she bother getting out of bed in the morning? Her life felt like the shambles left behind in the wake of a hurricane. Smashed dreams, scattered debris in the winds.

She’d been away from home for nearly two hours. Jack Jr. was probably tearing down the wallpaper while Sally and Baby Tommy were eating mud in the backyard. Matilda, no doubt, was on the phone with her girlfriends, complaining about the messiness of the Packant household, and oblivious to the three children.

Swallowing her pride, Katie pushed through the crowd. If she could be back on the Interstate in twenty minutes, maybe-

A flurry of activity caught her eye. A tall man, wearing a dark suit, tails, and a top hat was shouting out to the crowd, drawing everyone’s attention. He was in his early sixties, with a sharp little salt-and-pepper beard and a drawn but smiling face. The man positively radiated energy as he spoke, and people naturally stopped to listen to him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man cried, “may I show you all one of the great modern mental wonders of the age! Step right up and see the powers of… the **_Incredible Phantasmo!_**”

This prompted a smattering of applause, but the man bowed with gusto. “And now!” declared the man, apparently the Incredible Phantasmo himself, “allow me to demonstrate my wondrous and unbelievable talents!”

Katie paused, despite herself. Phantasmo was building up quite a lot of anticipation here; it was only natural curiosity to see if he could follow through.

In that instant, she noticed someone she’d encountered before: The bald man in the grey suit, the fellow who managed the exotic dancers. He was standing just to the left of the bragging Phantasmo.

The dancers’ manager glanced up, and his eyes met Katie’s. Urgently, he tapped Phantasmo on the shoulder, then jerked his head in Katie’s direction. Did Phantasmo nod in acknowledgement? Katie couldn’t tell.

She was about to move on when the tall entertainer shouted out, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Great Phantasmo will demonstrate his unbelievable powers!”

The man strode forward, placing a white-gloved hand on Katie’s shoulder. His twinkling green eyes stared down into hers.

“And who might you be, pretty lady?” exclaimed the Incredible Phantasmo.

Katie, startled, tried to retreat. “Oh,” she mumbled, “I-I-I’m really-“

“Don’t be afraid!” Phantasmo cried, leaning closer. “I promise you; this will be a day you will never forget! The Great Phantasmo has spoken!”

The crowd shifted, creating a circle around Katie and the entertainer holding her captive. The exhausted housewife smiled weakly, wondering if she should make a desperate break for it.

“Don’t be afraid,” repeated Phantasmo, as if he sensed her alarm. “Look at me, for just a moment? There’s a good girl.”

With his free hand, Phantasmo began waving in a strange, circular pattern. His other hand remained on Katie’s shoulder, and there was something about that subtle pressure which kept her rooted where she stood. She stared at the dancing hand, wondering what was about to happen.

Phantasmo began speaking, in a rapid and urgent tone, as if describing something Katie would need to remember in great detail later. The crowd murmured in curiosity, and all those eyes on her made Katie want to wilt. The attention was strangely pressurous. She realized that she wasn’t really paying attention to the words Phantasmo was saying, and yet every word he said seemed to be seeping into her brain.

Katie began to feel strange. Her feet swelled as they somehow became glued to the floor. Her arms went limp and her fingers opened; Jack Sr.’s briefcase tumbled to the ground. She didn’t notice. Her shoulders felt light, light as if they might detach and float away like balloons. The soft voices of the crowd seemed to fade, and although she was transfixed by Phantasmo’s dancing hand, she could momentarily glimpse faces in the background, gazing at her. The bald man in the grey suit appeared more than once; he was watching her very closely.

As he prattled on, Phantasmo arched his arm, and his fingers began wiggling before Katie’s face. Immediately, she felt that her eyes wanted to close. She felt sleepy. The urge to close her eyes, to let go and drift away, was growing within her. Numbly, Katie wondered what was happening. Wasn’t Phantasmo just talking to her? Why would she want to sleep? It didn’t make sense.

She fought the strange drowsiness, but it was too late. Under Phantasmo’s command, her eyes sagged shut, and then she felt her body and mind drift along with all that he was saying. There was no crowd, no ballroom, no-one else. Just Phantasmo, telling her everything, filling her thoughts.

Katie slipped under his spell, unaware of how deeply she’d gone.

******

And then, Phantasmo was snapping his fingers, loudly.

Katie blinked, her thoughts resetting themselves. She was standing on a small, broad table, her arms raised above her head, her feet in fifth position. Just like she used to pose in ballet class, years ago.

“What…?” she said, deeply confused.

The crowd of people around here – now quite larger – laughed out loud and then applauded.

“Take a bow, prima ballerina!” cried Phantasmo, standing just off to the side.

Katie blushed, not quite understanding why she felt so foolish. But she bowed nonetheless. More applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Phantasmo shouted, “that is my show! Thank you!!!”

People cheered. The tall entertainer extended a hand to Katie and helped her off the table and back onto the floor. “You did great,” he muttered as she stepped down.

Katie stared at him, still confused. Why did she feel so relaxed? And lightheaded?

The last thing she remembered… was seeing Phantasmo bragging to the crowds. Everything after that was a blank.

A man in checked suitcoat approached Phantasmo, eagerly shaking his hand. “Why, that was **_amazing!_**” he exclaimed, his Southern accent strong. “The little lady here, she completely thought she was a ballerina, didn’t she?”

“I have to get home…” Katie said to no-one in particular. Jack’s briefcase was on the floor nearby; she reflexively picked it up.

Other talent agents were milling about Phantasmo, all shaking his hand excitedly. “We’ll definitively be calling your agent,” one promised.

Katie turned, once again looking for the exit.

“Hey, wait,” a gruff voice said, and a hand was clapped onto her shoulder.

Surprised and still a little disoriented, Katie looked up. The man in the grey suit, the manager of the exotic dancers, was looming over her. He flashed her an insincere smile. “Don’t leave yet,” he urged.

“B-B-But I have to get h-h-home,” Katie repeated. Her thoughts were still a little foggy; she wasn’t sure why. She felt as if she was still waking from a ten-hour sleep.

The grey-suited man frowned, and grabbed Phantasmo by the elbow. “I need you,” he growled.

The tall entertainer swiveled about, prying himself away from his fans. “Where are you going?” he asked Katie.

“I have to-“ Katie began.

But Phantasmo waved his hand before her face, just once. “You have to come with me,” he told her.

Katie’s mind went blank. She felt Phantasmo take her by the arm, and like a sleepwalker, she allowed herself to be propelled out of the ballroom and away from the crowds. The tall entertainer guided her down a corridor, through another set of doors, down stairs, and then even deeper into the casino.

******

And then… Katie and her two gentlemen companions exited another set of doors to find a limousine waiting for them. Katie’s thoughts were still hazy. She felt euphoric and passive.

“Get in,” ordered Phantasmo.

Katie obeyed without a word of protest. Whatever Phantasmo wanted her to do, she would do. Dimly, she noted that she felt as if she were in a dream, and all of this control he had over her was completely natural. And comforting.

The grey-suited man squeezed into the limo beside her left, Phantasmo on her right. She looked up at the taller man, surprised.

“I’ll take that,” the grey-suited man said gently, prying Jack’s briefcase from her fingers.

“Sleep…!” Phantasmo ordered her.

Katie’s eyes closed all on their own, and her body slumped in its seat. She felt both made of stone and light as air at the same time. Everything sounded far, far away.

The car started, then pulled out onto the road.

“She’s an excellent subject,” Phantasmo remarked. He sounded proud of himself.

“She’ll dance, right?” the grey-suited man growled.

“Oh,” Phantasmo said lazily, “she’ll do or think whatever I tell her to, Lester. She’s **_deeply_** hypnotized.”

“Mmm,” said the grey-suited man appreciatively. Katie felt his hand roll over and then cup one of her breasts. “She’s one of the best bodies I’ve seen in a long, long time. Tight stomach, curvy hips, nice tits… the works. And she’s a beauty, to boot. I ain’t had such a beauty at the Dazzler, not for a long time.” He paused. “You sure that she’ll dance for me all week?”

“Calm yourself, Lester,” snapped Phantasmo. “One night at a time. She’ll dance tonight, of that I’m sure. But who knows how her mind will respond tomorrow? We should wait and see.”

“Very well,” Lester the grey-suited man grumbled. He withdrew his hand. “We’ll be at the club shortly. Can you work your magic now?”

Phantasmo laughed, as if amused by such a feeble challenge. “You worry too much, Les” he chided.

Katie felt a hand on her shoulder, and somehow, she knew that Phantasmo was about to talk to her.

“You are relaxing deeper and deeper,” the entertainer told her, “feeling so much better with each and every breath. The more you relax, the more you respond to my voice.”

The words flowed through Katie’s mind. They were powerful, dominating, demanding obedience.

“And now,” Phantasmo said conversationally, “I will snap my fingers. When I do, you will discover a whole new side of your personality, deep within you. This other woman is sexy, outgoing, unafraid, and loves to be naughty. You will be able to see her, sense her, know her completely.”

There was a loud **_click!_**

Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, Katie could see a woman, a wild, insatiable, utterly devilish woman. This vixen had a body just like Katie’s and wore Katie’s face, but otherwise was nothing like her. The woman was nude, and loved being nude. She laughed wickedly under Katie’s stare.

“Do you see this other person?” Phantasmo pried.

Distantly, Katie heard her own voice respond: “Yes…”

“What is her name?” demanded the entertainer.

Without hesitation, Katie answered, “Esmerelda Amazonia.” In her mind, the other woman laughed with sheer delight as Katie spoke the words.

The name, of course, made no sense. Esmerelda was the wild gypsy dancing girl from “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”; the Amazons were savage warrior women from Greek mythology. Neither had anything to do with the other… and yet, Katie was solidly convinced these two words belonged together.

“Esmerelda Amazonia,” said Phantasmo, pronouncing each syllable slowly and deliberately. “Tell me all about her…”

******

The limo pulled up to the Dazzler, the dingy strip club on the corner of Boulder and California. The club was far enough north as to not offend an admiring eye on the Strip, but not so remote as to discourage tourists from reaching it. Even now, at roughly 3:00 pm in the afternoon, there was a sizable crowd inside.

The limo door opened, and Esmerelda Amazonia herself popped out, flashing her alluring smile at the few businessmen lingering outside. They stared at her openly, amazed by her beauty and sheer, raw confidence. After beautiful little woman swept past, they fumbled for their wallets, eager for tickets.

It was going to be a good show.

******


	7. Esmerelda Amazonia: Chapter Two

Esmerelda stormed into the tiny dressing room, determined to be ready for her show. Moving with supreme confidence, she scattered all those who wandered into her path. Sure, she was short, but her flashing eyes and defiant posture gave her the stature of a goddess.

The other dancers regarded her with muted surprise, but quickly made room for this unexpected celebrity. Esmerelda ignored them. Without hesitation, the smaller, supremely confident dancer strode up to a dressing mirror, claiming the makeup there as her own. After inspecting herself in the mirror with a deep frown, the petite dancer began getting ready for that afternoon’s show.

Esmerelda stripped off her street clothes quickly, pausing only for barely a heartbeat to wonder why on earth she was wearing a cotton skirt, sweater, bobby socks, and bootie shoes. What was she, a housewife? All of these were cast aside.

“You… uh, you new here, honey?” another dancer asked, intimidated by Esmerelda’s brusque manner.

“New to this shithole club,” snapped Esmerelda.

She’d danced many, many times in the nude, before, of course: Paris, Amsterdam, Washington DC, New York, LA, Tokyo, Hamburg. Las Vegas didn’t intimidate her in the slightest.

Esmerelda studied her nude form in the mirror, scrutinizing every inch.

“Jesus Christ,” a third dancer gasped. “Honey, where’d you get that body? You go to one of them plastic surgeons? Can they make my waist tiny like that?”

“You want to get a thin waist?” frowned Esmerelda. “Stop eating like a pig.”

The dancer went bright red, but Esmerelda now ignored her entirely. She strode over to the costume rack, taking whatever she pleased. She selected a tiny pair of pants, red teddy, black bra, three boas, and a feathered headdress fit for a queen. Most of these things fit, and the parts which didn’t… well, Esmerelda could work with that.

Ignoring the glares of the other girls, Esmerelda also helped herself to whatever makeup she needed, then pushed her way to the backstage wings. Hank, the obese announcer, gaped at her as she told him exactly how she wanted to be introduced.

She was bumping two other acts in the line-up, but what of it? **_Those girls_** were everyday dancers. **_Esmerelda Amazonia_** was an once-in-a-lifetime performer, the best in her generation. She deserved that stage. Hank stared at her figure, then quickly agreed.

******

The onstage act wrapped up, and then Esmerelda assumed her entrance position behind the secondary curtain. She listened with deep satisfaction as Hank cried into his microphone: “_Gentlemen…! Direct from Paris, France (and far more exotic locales), the Dazzler is proud to present… The one…! The only…!_ **_Esmerelda Amazonia!!!_**”

The curtain swept back, and two bright spotlights bathed Esmerelda’s body. The Negro jazz band, accustomed to split-second changes in the show, jumped into a lively number, one with a lot of bass drum. Like the hardened pro she was, Esmerelda begun swinging her hips in time with the beat. She strutted forward, every defiant step striking the stage with just enough **_oomph_** to declare her mastery of this kinky little domain.

The businessmen in the audience fell silent in awe as she approached. At 3:30 pm, they were a mix of regular club-goers and awkward first-timers from out of town. As the stripper approached, conversations froze, drinks remained on the table, cigarettes hung forgotten in their owner’s lips. Even the “_I Seen It All_” cocktail waitresses seemed transfixed.

Esmerelda was worth all the hype she demanded. Most strippers in those days were curvy women, with plenty in their breasts and hips, but also chubby about the stomach and thighs. They were pretty, but not beautiful. They danced, yet never allowed themselves to truly be lost in their art.

Esmerelda, in contrast, had a sleek, compact body, laced with muscles. Her breasts were still larger than usual (perhaps because her alter-ego was still breastfeeding), which all combined to make her much sexier than any of her fellow dancers. She held her head high, her beauty and confidence radiating like a beacon. As she moved with the music, she seemed almost in a trance, as if the music were guiding her body. She was assertive, alluring, and irresistible.

Taking her time, Esmerelda shed her clothes, one-by-one, until only the headdress remained. It was rather careless of her, but she absently tossed what she was wearing out into the audience, where the surprised patrons scrambled to collect everything. State laws in those days required women to wear pasties on their breasts, but Esmerelda flaunted such restrictions. She smiled proudly as the men stared at her exposed, erect nipples.

The first song ended, neatly transitioning into a second. Now Esmerelda broke another Vegas convention: she stepped off the stage, onto a front-row table shared by two astonished businessmen. She extended her hands expectantly, and they hurriedly helped the nude woman down to the floor.

Now Esmerelda wandered among the customers, generously touching their shoulders or chests. Gentlemen were awarded alluring smiles; patrons who tried to tip her got the additional reward of a saucy remark or even a kiss she blew with her hands. As the naked dancer moved among the crowd, a parade of entranced men started following in her wake, oblivious to anything but her.

The Dazzler had been built in the 1920’s; it had **_never_** seen a performance like this.

As her second song wrapped up, Esmerelda timed her walk to return her to the front of the showroom. She climbed up a chair, a table, and then onto the stage, making sure to bend over a little, just to tease the lucky few men standing just behind her. As she slunk backstage, the customers stared.

It was only once she was completely obscured by the curtains did they erupt into thunderous applause and hooting. The cheering lasted for minutes.

******

In the back of the Dazzler’s showroom, Lester McCormick and Stan Kowalewski – a.k.a. Phantasmo the Hypnotist – stood in awe of the performance they’d just seen.

“Holy…” Lester mouthed. Lester had owned the Dazzler for nearly twenty years, and he had **_never_** seen a dancer dominate the showroom as Esmerelda. The performance had been the best he’d seen in ages: the combination of red-hot sexiness, picture-perfect beauty, and just the right amount of tease. Why, the audience were still spellbound for Esmerelda, and she’d been off the stage for almost five minutes! The poor dancer who’d followed her wasn’t drawing so much as a glance.

“She’s a natural…!” exclaimed Stan the hypnotist. He sounded dazed.

The whole thing had started as a perverted joke between the two men. One night, months back, Stan had performed as Phantasmo in the Golden Nugget. By chance, he had coaxed several beauty pageant contestants come up on stage and get hypnotized. Lester had spent the show lusting after these gorgeous, entranced women.

Later, he’d asked Stan: “Why can’t you hypnotize women to dance at my club?”

The two swindlers had decided to pick a random victim, hypnotize her, and then see what would happen. Chances were good that their subject would get out of stage, flounce around a little bit, but not really do much of an act. After all, stripping is a skill, not a talent. Complete amateurs, hypnotized or not, can’t just get on stage and compete with the pros. Both men assumed once they tried their little experiment, they’d realize the whole thing was a bad idea and never do it again.

But they hadn’t counted on Esmerelda Amazonia.

“Oh my God, Stan,” Lester enthused. “She’s **_tremendous!_** I’ll make a **_fortune_** with her!”

Stan the hypnotist was still absorbing the magnitude of what he’d seen. “Waitaminute, Lester…” he said, thinking out loud. “We weren’t planning on keeping this woman for more than one dance. How-“

“I don’t fucking know!” Lester snapped impatiently. “You just saw what happened; can’t you extend her hypnosis to… I don’t know… keep her here?”

“We don’t even know who she is,” argued Stan. “Did you see her hand? She’s wearing a wedding ring. She’s married. Sooner or later, her mind will snap out of the hypnosis. And then her husband will find about all of this. What if he’s a cop?”

Lester sneered, “Aw, com’on. You can work something. I’ll cut you in for… thirty percent of Esmerelda’s cut?”

Stan was about to argue when a third man approached. This fellow was large, **_very_** large, wearing a dark grey suit and a stony expression. His eyes were beady and squinted at the other two with thinly-veiled contempt. The showroom lights seemed to dim as he loomed over the club owner and the hypnotist.

“Uh…” Lester smiled, immediately nervous. “Hi, Bones.”

Bones’ scowl deepened even further, as if he didn’t like hearing his name spoken aloud. When he spoke, his voice sounded like crunching gravel: “Little Jimmy has a message for you’s two.”

“Oh?” said Lester weakly.

“Little Jimmy,” Bones intoned, “is gonna be up in the Club Room in a few minutes. And he’d like **_that_** young lady to accompany him.”

There was no need to ask to which young lady he was referring.

“Er,” Lester squirmed.

Bones stared at him, wordlessly.

“Right away,” the miserable club owner promised. “Whatever Little Jimmy wants.”

Bones nodded curtly. “Very wise,” he rumbled.

******

Back in the dressing rooms, all the other dancers regarded Esmerelda with shocked reverence.

“Honey…” breathed Peach Bottoms, the club’s youngest dancer, “…you’d you **_do_** that?”

Esmerelda breezed past the other women, plopping down into a makeup chair. “Ain’t nothing to it,” she huffed, repainting her eyelashes.

“I been dancing for almost eight years now,” said Silky Gams in admiration, “and I ain’t never seen a woman take an audience like you did.”

“Hmmgh,” Esmerelda shrugged.

The door of the dressing room banged open. Lester and Stan, both looking panicked, tumbled into the room. The girls shrieked and covered themselves up.

All except for Esmerelda. Still nude, she fixed the club owner and hypnotist in a defiant, withering glare. “You two apes never heard of manners?” she snapped. “Now scram, we gots ladies present here.”

“You have to come with us,” panted Lester.

“I got another show to do,” snarled the petite dancer. She returned to the mirror.

“No, you don’t get us,” Stan cried. “Little Jimmy wants you to dance for him. He’s waiting for you, up in the Club Room.”

The other women fell silent at the name _Little Jimmy_. Peach Bottoms gasped in fear.

“Yeah?” Esmerelda cracked, still applying makeup. “So what’s that to me?”

“You… You don’t refuse Little Jimmy,” said Lester, his voice quavering. “No-one refuses Little Jimmy.”

The beautiful dancer sighed, her annoyance plain. “Fine,” she groused. “But I better be getting twice my take for this.”

******

Atop the Dazzler was a single room, spacious and decorated. This was the “Club Room,” reserved for private parties. Lester also liked to use this room to entertain the corrupt cops or Vegas city council members who needed to be induced to look the other way from time to time. With a bay of windows overlooking the Strip to the south, a pool table, a full bar, and lush leather furniture, this room was the dream hideaway for adult men looking to misbehave with giggling, willing women.

Lately, however, the Club Room had been assumed by Little Jimmy, a horrid figure of Las Vegas’ seedy underworld. Most of the rumors involving Little Jimmy were ghastly tales, whispered stories where money changed hands in violent ways and people got hurt. How Little Jimmy figured in the bookkeeping of the Dazzler is a tale best left to the imagination, but it is safe to say that Lester was not allowing the gangster to hole up in the Club Room out of generosity.

The curtains were drawn. The lights were dimmed. A Benny Goodman record was softly playing in the corner. The room appeared to be empty.

Along the northern wall, the elevator dinged, and then the double doors slid open. Esmerelda Amazonia, now dressed in a slinky red satin dress, white evening gloves, and bright red high heels, slowly but confidently walked out onto the hardwood floors. Her hair had been hastily pinned up. A quick touch-up of makeup, however, had ensured she looked beautiful.

Behind her, the Negro elevator operator glanced at her, concern on his face.

“I’ll be fine, honey,” Esmerelda assured him.

The man shook his head and hit a button. The doors closed.

Surveying the opulent room, the dancer was impressed. Lester had spared little expense on the furnishings here; the room was even air-conditioned. Mini-chandeliers twinkled in the blackness above her. A mahogany pool table stood before the full bar, made from crystal and chrome steel. The carpet was white and thick and very soft. The air smelled faintly of Cuban cigars.

“You,” a deep voice rumbled from the darkness.

Esmerelda swung her head about. With a cool look on her beautiful face, she studied the lump of a man who was now extracting himself from the shadows.

This fellow was something else. Short, squat, and rippling with muscles, he reminded Esmerelda of a human bulldog. The man strutted more than walked, as if each step required more energy than a normal person would use. His lumpy, bald head seemed almost squashed onto the top of his puglike body. His face was also a mass of lumps, especially his nose and brow. The nose had been broken, long ago. The man was scowling… although for him, that might have been his face’s neutral expression.

Everything about this man oozed danger. Small children and dogs probably ran yelping when he appeared in the streets.

Yet despite his physical toughness, the man was not ugly. There was a certain… masculine aura about him. He was strong, strong as a bull. Those corded muscles represented a lifetime of hardship and struggle, although it is probably best if you do not wonder that that hardship and struggle entailed. This fellow was a survivor, to be sure.

Esmerelda smiled grimly to herself. She admired survivors. This man attracted her.

“Well hello there,” the dancer said coolly.

As the man drew closer, she thought she saw the hint of an amused smile play across that leather-like face. “I’m doin’ good,” he grunted. “I’m Jimmy. I like how you dance.”

Yes, this was Little Jimmy, the same Little Jimmy suspected of murder in four different American cities. The list of his alleged crimes was too long and ghastly to mention, but suffice to say this man was a killer, with a habit of taking whatever he wanted.

Jimmy marched up to Esmerelda, looking her up and down. His expression was unreadable.

“Okay, tiger,” said the young woman, all business. “Lester says I’m to dance, just for you. Where d’y’want me?”

Little Jimmy grabbed her suddenly, thrusting her body against his, and pressing his thick lips against her. He kissed like he was trying to swallow Esmerelda whole.

“Hey!” the dancer barked, and roughly shoved the gangster backwards. “**_Don’t you touch me!_**”

Little Jimmy blinked, taken completely aback. Then he glowered and reached for Esmerelda again.

“I said **_NO!!!_**” bellowed the woman, and she struck Jimmy’s face. **_Hard._**

The squat man actually stepped back, wearing an expression of shock. His beady eyes widened in amazement.

“Now listen, honey,” growled Esmerelda, bristling with indignation. “I’m here to dance for you, and you’re gonna be respectful. **_See?_**”

The two locked gazes.

Then, Little Jimmy grinned, just a little. His meaty hand rubbed his cheek where the red mark still glowed.

“A’right, then,” he said admirably.

“You sit there, honey,” Esmerelda instructed, jabbing a finger at an easy chair. “You let Esmerelda Amazonia take care of everything else.”

Amazingly, Little Jimmy complied. He settled into the chair like a king on his throne.

Now Esmerelda assumed command. First she strode over to the record player, flipping through the 45s neatly arranged on a display shelf. She scowled.

“Ugh. We’ll just use our imagination, then,” she announced, snapping off Benny Goodman.

Little Jimmy watched her intently, saying nothing.

Now the curvy little dancer kicked off her heels, then moved back onto the white carpet, just five feet before the reigning Mafia don. She closed her eyes, turned her back to her audience, and generated the music she needed in her head.

Soon, the internal rhythm was taking over. Esmerelda swayed her hips, at first just a little. Her arms wrapped over her chest, so her hands appeared atop her shoulders.

The young woman closed her eyes and smiled to herself. This was her favorite part. The build-up of anticipation. She knew her one-man audience was staring at her, eagerly picturing her body with that dress removed. Well, let him wait a little. The moment when she finally disrobed would be so much more erotic if she took her time.

At the same time, the show needed to get underway. In deliberately slow, slinky movements, Esmerelda dropped one ribbon strap off her shoulder, then the other. At the same time, she backed up against her patron. “Unzip me, honey?” she purred.

Little Jimmy leaned forward, delicately guiding the silver zipper from her shoulder blades to just above her buttocks.

“Mmmm,” Esmerelda moaned, as if the act of unzipping aroused her. She stepped away, but was sure to shimmy, allowing the dress to peel downwards. Soon it was fluttering to the floor.

Now the dancer dipped into her full movement repertoire. She began to dance, really dance, always using movements that swayed her hips and shoulders. Gradually, her teddy was shed, and then her bra. Dancing with one arm over her breasts, she circled about to let her audience get a good look at her from the front. Now she was wearing only her tiny panties and those satin white evening gloves.

Little Jimmy sat back, his hands folded over his chin. His eyes were narrowed, and his face was a mask of stone.

But Esmerelda was in her element. She allowed her protective hand to slide down her stomach, which fully exposed her ample breasts. With a single, smooth motion, she hooked her thumbs beneath her underwear and pushed them down. All the way down.

Now she was naked, save for the gloves. Stalking like a predator, Esmerelda moved on Little Jimmy, dancing just before his knees. He leaned back, his face still unreadable.

Esmerelda smiled, a wide, beautiful smile. “You like the show,” she murmured as she worked.

Little Jimmy didn’t answer.

The young woman laughed, very softly. “You **_love_** the show,” she moaned. “You love it.”

“Shaddup,” commanded Jimmy.

“You don’t tell me to shut up,” Esmerelda retorted. She continued dancing, but her voice was now laced with iron.

Little Jimmy opened his mouth… but said nothing.

“Its alright, honey,” purred Esmerelda, her voice soft and seductive once again. “You’re lonely. I can see that. I understand it, perfectly.”

Of course, Esmerelda could not remember Katie Packard in that moment. But she instinctively identified with Katie’s loneliness. Little Jimmy, Esmerelda thought, was also alone.

“Its hard to be the king, eh, sugar?” she murmured. She twirled closer to her audience, turning about so he could admire her shimmying bottom.

The Mafia don sighed absently. “I ain’t lonely,” he disagreed. But not forcefully.

“I think,” Esmerelda whispered, “that you got lots of people scared of you. People who respect you, but wish you were gone. That’s gotta be lonely.”

“I got lots of friends,” grunted Little Jimmy. “I also get plenty of broads. I ain’t never go to bed alone.”

“I’m sure you do,” the dancer replied, her voice breathy. She was so close, her legs were brushing Jimmy’s as she danced. “You’re a powerful man. Men respect that. Women want that.” In a moment of honestly, she admitted, “I like that.”

“You do?” said the gangster.

Esmerelda smirked. “Don’t sound so eager, Romeo.”

“Hey, lemme tell you something,” Little Jimmy said. “Vegas is my town, see? I know it all. I control it all.” He shifted in his seat. “If people really knew…”

Still dancing, Esmerelda studied the lumpy man. Little Jimmy was trying to impress her, she realized.

He **_was_** a powerful man. Powerful, brutish, almost primal. Like the toughest caveman chiefdom she’d read about in books. The man’s raw force excited her. Esmerelda smiled to herself.

Well, what if the powerful king could be seduced, and on her terms? What would that make her? Queen of the King of Las Vegas, right? Yes, Esmerelda thought to herself. Little Jimmy, for all his bravado and thuggish appearance, was ripe for the plucking.

She twirled even closer, now looming over the dwarf-like man. He was openly staring at her swaying breasts.

And he was erect. Fully erect. Esmerelda grinned again. She saw her opening.

“Mmmm…” she whispered. “What have we here?”

The dancer dipped one gloved hand down, and her gentle gloved fingers barely caressed the stubby pole in Little Jimmy’s trousers.

“**_Uhhgh,_**” the gangster moaned. He shifted his weight again.

Esmerelda laughed quietly, a pleasant, lilting sound. It delighted her that the smallest pressure from her fingers could control this hulking man’s body, making him roil in pleasure. The sensation gave her a feeling of power. She licked her lips.

“Take off the belt,” she ordered. Her voice was soft, yet carried unmistakable authority.

Little Jimmy, held in her erotic spell, was unable to resist. His thick fingers flew to his buckle, and soon he was yanking the entire belt from his pant loops. Esmerelda dodged as he flung it away, grinning wickedly as she was obeyed.

“Good boy,” she complimented, her voice purring. “Now close your eyes.”

“Uh-uh,” Little Jimmy grunted.

He was defying her? This wouldn’t do. Esmerelda arched one eyebrow. “I said,” she growled, “close your eyes.” As she spoke, she squeezed the gangster’s erection, just a little.

Little Jimmy gasped in surprise and pain, and his eyes screwed shut out of reflex.

“Good boy,” complimented Esmerelda.

She knelt, delicately unbuttoning her man’s fly, and smoothing aside his underwear. His thick cock popped up like an automatic defense. Esmerelda made one last check to ensure he was keeping his eyes closed, then leaned forward.

First, she simply licked the penis from its base to its tip, at first on the left side, then the right, as if she was sampling an ice cream cone. The dancer didn’t actually know, but she had always suspected that gentlemen received fellatio, it was best to start small and use a symmetric approach.

She was right. The warmth of her tongue excited Little Jimmy, but then the cold air immediately bit his wet skin after she passed. As Esmerelda licked him, one side at a time, Little Jimmy thrashed a little in his chair, mumbling in wordless pleasure.

Esmerelda herself was getting quite stimulated. She gripping Little Jimmy’s little jimmy by the base, clamping just a little, all while wrapping her lips completely around his tip. She bobbed her head up and down, drawing him in, then out, then in, then out, over and over. Each slurp drew a little more of him deeper into her mouth.

The lumpy man said something in Italian as his fingers clutched the arms of his chair. He was immobilized, trembling slightly, but otherwise powerless to move. Esmerelda sucked him at top speed, feeling herself becoming more and more aroused. It was odd; she briefly wondered why pleasuring Little Jimmy would feel pleasurable to her. No matter.

And then, the crimelord came, a great explosive gush right into Esmerelda’s throat. She giggled slightly as she swallowed. There was something positively intoxicating about taking this powerful man, stimulating him, and seeing how he became a quivering, helpless mass under her gentle touch. In a world where women rarely had any power over men in any form, she relished this moment, no matter how perverse it was.

Little Jimmy came and came, and eventually expelled all of his juice. The lumpy man collapsed into his chair, heaving or breath. He stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed in his astonishment.

But Esmerelda was horny, more aroused than she could ever remember being. Rising off Jimmy’s cock, her fingers began tearing at his shirt and pants, seeking to strip his entire body bare.

Little Jimmy rested for just a moment before responding. Then the two of them pulled off everything he wore but his many rings. Somehow his body remained in the chair the whole time.

Now both were nude, save for Esmerelda’s gloves. Esmerelda climbed atop that lumpy body, straddling Little Jimmy with her legs and kissing him passionately. She pressed forward, willing him to put his great hands all over her body. The only sound in the room was their loud, smacking kisses.

Suddenly Esmerelda stopped, pulling away just a little bit. Little Jimmy stared up at her. They shared a look, a wordless communication as expressive as any sentence. Little Jimmy understood everything Esmerelda wanted him to do.

With a might grunt, the powerful gangster lurched to his feet, somehow picking up the tiny little dancer as he did. He carried her across the room, depositing her naked body on the pool table. As she shoved the balls into the nearest pockets, he grabbed a stool from the bar, using it to climb onto the green felt with her.

Esmerelda wasted no time. She scrambled onto all fours, positioning her rear to face her lover. Without hesitation, he grabbed her hips, stood on his knees, and slid his cock straight into her glistening pussy. There was no need for foreplay or teasing; she was wet, he was hard, both were incredibly horny. They went straight to the pounding.

And it was only here that Esmerelda lost her ironclad control. Little Jimmy rammed inside her, each thrust more forceful than the last. Her senses overloaded, and soon she was moaning and wailing in ecstasy at his power. She had controlled the evening up until now; now she surrendered just a little control to let his lust run wild.

******


	8. Esmerelda Amazonia: Chapter Three

Three hours had passed. **_Three hours._** Lester wiped the nervous sweat from his brow. He stabbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

“What do y’think he’s doing to her up there?” the Dazzler’s owner worriedly asked for the hundredth time.

Stan, a.k.a. Phantasmo, groaned. “**_Please_** stop fucking asking that, Les!” He twirled a half-consumed whiskey glass in his fingers, depressed, and reflecting on his poor decisions in life.

The two men were in Lester’s cramped little office, watching the elevator that went up to the Club Room, three floors above. Behind the thin walls, they could hear the main stage of the club. The jazz band was playing for yet another strip act, and the murmurs and cheers of their drunken clientele could be detected. But the sound of steady commerce brought no comfort.

“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” moaned Lester. “What if Jimmy’s **_strangled_** her? What if he’s into beating her, or something.” He took a nervous drag. “I bet he’s into the really sick sex stuff. I bet-“

“Shut up, please!” Stan muttered.

“We never shoulda done this,” Lester continued babbling. “If she’s murdered, fuck me, the cops’ll trace it back here, I know it, they’ll shut down the Dazzler. Christ almighty, do you know how much they’d love to shut this place down? Why-“

The elevator dinged. Both men leapt to their feet, their eyes wide.

The doors slid open, and Esmerelda Amazonia calmly stepped into the corridor. She wore her dress, gloves, and heels, and was absently patting her hair. Her makeup was slightly smudged.

“What?” she asked rudely when she saw the two men.

“You okay?” Lester asked, rushing to her side. “I mean, is Little Jimmy-“

“Little Jimmy’s asleep,” Esmerelda replied, casting a disgusted eye over the strip club owner. “He’ll be out for a while. Not that its any of **_your_** business-“

Stan bounded forward. Before the petite dancer could react, the hypnotist wrapped his arm about her waist.

“**_Sleep!_**” he commanded her.

Esmerelda’s eyes closed as her face went blank. She collapsed into his arms.

“She’s okay, she’s okay…!” Lester babbled, looking thoroughly relieved.

“Okay,” Stan said, admiring Esmerelda’s breasts in the dress. “So… now what do we do?”

“**_We get rid of her_**, you idiot,” exclaimed Lester. “You said she was bound to come out of the hypnosis sooner or later. So erase her memory, get her back to the Stardust, and **_make sure she never fucking knows what happened to her!_**”

“Yeah,” agreed Stan. The two swindlers had really dodged bullet. Thank God this little housewife had entertained Little Jimmy. What would have happened if the mobster found out that she wasn’t a dancer…? Stan shuddered to think.

“Go get the clothes she came in,” the hypnotist ordered his friend. Lester nodded, then turned and hurried down the hall.

Stan bent over Esmerelda, issuing new hypnotic commands…

******

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

Katie blinked. Where… where was she?

Her head cleared. Why… she was standing in the Stardust lobby. Not far from the ballroom. Tourists and gamblers were milling about, their faces already flushed from a few drinks.

“Ma’am?”

Katie shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. She felt as her mind had wandered, and she’d lost track of her surroundings, if only for a second. It was an odd feeling.

“Ma’am?” the man’s voice said, yet again.

It was the Stardust security guard, that heavyset fellow that she remembered from earlier.

“Oh,” Katie said, embarrassed for some reason. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m fine.” She flashed a nervous smile.

The guard regarded her with suspicion. “You certain, ma’am?” he drawled. “Have you been drinking or sniffing anything? The Stardust Casino don’t look kindly on lady-folk who do that here.”

“Oh no, oh n-n-no,” stammered Katie. “Why, I was just c-c-coming from there.” She pointed to the ballroom door. “My husband, J-J-Jack Packard, he’s r-r-running the Entertainers’ Showcase.” She smiled meekly.

The guard’s frown deepened. “The Expo’s been over for five hours, ma’am.”

Katie couldn’t have heard that right. “W-w-what…?”

“Its past ten PM, ma’am,” the guard told her. “I only caught you ‘cause I’m doing a double shift today.” He folded his arms across his bulging gut. “You certain you ain’t been doing-“

“Ten PM!” Katie wailed, spotting a clock on the far wall. “How can it be ten o’clock?!?”

Absolutely terrified, the housewife turned and ran for the parking lot.

******

Katie pulled into her driveway, nearly flattening Jack Jr.’s bicycle with the station wagon.

The poor housewife was beside herself, absolutely beside herself. What had happened??? She remembered the Entertainer’s Expo, but then… she wasn’t sure. After the encounter with Jack Sr., she had been heading back to the car, when… her memory was a blank. An absolute blank.

Her Aunt Millie had once been hospitalized for seeing ghosts. The doctors thought there must be something wrong in her brain, but nothing had ever come of it. What if Katie had inherited Aunt Millie’s dementia???

Katie forced herself to swallow the fear and confusion. She needed to check on her family. Like a tornado in miniature, she rushed to the front door, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

The interior of her house was an utter wreck. Aside from the sofa, not a single piece of furniture was in its original position. Food and toys were scattered everywhere: across the floor, the chairs, on the bookcases, the end tables, even up the staircase. It looked like a plate of spaghetti had been tossed against the far wall. Soiled children’s clothes also littered the floor.

Jack Sr. and his mother, Matilda, sat side-by-side on the couch, their heads tipped back, both sound asleep. At the soft click of the front door shutting, their eyes flew open. Within a heartbeat, both were on their feet and rounding on poor Katie, their eyes blazing.

“Where **_were_** you?!?” thundered Jack Sr.

“You have a lot of nerve!” Matilda fumed. “A lot of nerve! Why, how could you leave your family all alone like this?”

Katie shrank back before them, helpless in the face of their rage. “I… I… I…” was all she could manage.

“Well?” Jack Sr. demanded. “**_Where were you?_**”

“I-I-I don’t know,” squeaked poor Katie. She shrank back from her furious husband, wringing her hands. “I… don’t r-r-remember, dear.”

“Honestly,” Matilda snorted. “You’d think a woman who abandoned her family for a day would come up with a better excuse.” As if Katie wasn’t even in the room, she said to Jack, “I **_told_** you she wasn’t a good match, son. You should’ve listened to your father and me.”

“Ma…!” Jack Sr. groused, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Can you just go home?”

Matilda didn’t budge. Her indignation was yet to be satisfied.

“Let me get this straight,” Jack Sr. said to Katie, his nostrils flaring, “you came all the way to the Stardust to give me my briefcase… **_after_** I needed it… and then you don’t remember anything else that happened???” His voice cracked a little.

“Dear,” Katie whimpered, wringing her hands, “I swear, I d-d-don’t remember…”

Jack Sr. glowered. He suddenly looked very, very tired.

“You at least have my briefcase?” he asked, his voice dead.

“Uh…” Katie stammered, only now realizing: she had no idea where her husband’s briefcase was.

******

Back at the Dazzler, the late-night business was picking up. Customers, mostly buzzed gentlemen, packed into the show room, hooting and stomping for the girls who paraded everything for them across the stage. Alcohol flowed. Dollars changed hands. The band thundered on, seemingly in no danger of running out of energy.

In the manager’s office, Lester’s heart was finally returning to normal. He rubbed his forehead, reaching for yet another cigarette.

A huge figure suddenly appeared in the doorway. Lester jumped.

“Eh, hi Bones,” Lester said nervously, rising from his chair. “You, uh, you want a brandy?”

“Little Jimmy has a message,” the enforcer sneered. “He liked that little number you sent up this afternoon. The broad in the red dress.”

“Ah yes,” Lester said. He could feel the color draining from his cheeks.

“So send her back up to the Club Room,” commanded Bones. ”With champagne.”

Lester cringed. “Oh,” he said, his heart racing. “Uh, Esmerelda? Esmerelda Amazonia? Um… she’s…”

“She’s booked for the whole night,” Bones rumbled. “With Little Jimmy.” He pointed a demanding finger at Lester. “So make it happen, _subito_. You dig?”

Lester’s unlit cigarette fell from his trembling fingers. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Unconcerned, Bones brushed lint from his black suitcoat. He threw one last glare at Lester, then departed. The strip club owner could hear the big thug’s footfalls recede for the hallway.

Lester broke out into a cold sweat. _Oh sweet_ _Jesus Christ_, he thought, his stomach twisting up in knots.

In all the time he’d dominated the Dazzler, Little Jimmy had never demanded to see a dancer twice. Never! **_What had Esmerelda done to him?!?_**

But the woman who had been hypnotized to become Esmerelda Amazonia – whoever she was – was long gone. Stan had seen to it that her memory of being a stripper was erased. And neither man had thought to ask the woman what her real name was.

******

Katie spent the night scrubbing down her house and cursing her atrocious luck. It took hours, but she was able to more-or-less reverse the damage. True, the wallpaper on the far wall would always have the faint stain of tomato sauce, but all-in-all, she was satisfied with her work.

As she scrubbed late into the night, Katie found herself returning to that strange gap in her memory. What the **_heck_** had happened?

She had few clues. There was a lingering sensation of a woman, perhaps a woman she had met? Confident, sexually aggressive, commanding, tough as nails. Katie couldn’t remember the woman’s face or voice or even one physical feature, and yet this mystery lady seemed familiar and comfortable to her.

_Perhaps I saw her from afar?_ Katie wondered.

******

The following morning, the little housewife felt a little strange. Not quite herself. As usual, she rose before the rest of the family to prepare breakfast and her husband’s lunch. She was operating with about four hours’ worth of sleep.

And yet, somehow Katie felt calm. Assured. In control. It was not a feeling she was used to… but one she welcomed.

As Jack Sr. hurried out the door, she was waiting there, as usual, to kiss him and press his brown bagged lunch into his hand. Jack was already grumbling about the meetings he had to attend today.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Katie cracked. There was an unusual glint in her eye.

Jack Sr. hesitated, staring at his wife in disbelief.

“You knock ‘em dead,” Katie told Jack with a firm nod. Then she slapped him again on the behind. Hard.

Stunned, Jack Sr. grinned. He stole another kiss, then meandered out to his car. Neither he nor Katie noticed that he’d plumb forgotten his replacement briefcase.

******

There was a frantic pounding on Stan the hypnotist’s apartment door.

“Eh?” Stan had been deep asleep, dreaming about hypnotizing all the Dazzler dancers, then watching them prance about him in their birthday suits.

The pounding grew louder.

“Jesus Christ…” Stan mumbled, hauling himself out of bed. He pulled on a stained bathrobe, then peeped through his front door’s spyhole.

Outside was Lester, looking positively at his wits end. “Lemme in, lemme in!” the strip club owner begged.

Stan debated turning the fellow away.

“Fuck, man, lemme in!” Lester yelled, positively frantic.

Grumbling to himself, Stan drew back the deadbolt and opened the door.

Lester was a rumbled mess. He was still wearing the same odd gray suit that he’d worn to the Vegas Talent Showcase, yesterday. The man smelled of cigarette smoke and his breath reeked badly. There were huge bags under his eyes.

“Jesus, man,” Stan gagged. “You can’t go home before showing up on my doorstep?”

“I can’t go home,” Lester exclaimed wildly, grabbing the hypnotist by the bathrobe. “They know where I live! They followed me all night, Stan, all fucking night!”

“Wait… who?”

Lester explained: Little Jimmy had sent for Esmerelda Amazonia, and was none too pleased when she couldn’t be found.

“So… tell Little Jimmy that she went home or something,” Stan said, puzzled.

Lester’s lip trembled. “You don’t tell Little Jimmy that he has to wait. Stan, when I couldn’t say where they could find Esmerelda, they threatened to break my thumbs!”

“Oh,” the hypnotist winced. He pried Lester’s hands from his bathrobe. “Sounds serious, my friend.”

“Whaddya we gonna do?” wailed Lester.

Stan took a step back. “We?”

The strip club owner fixed his friend with a crazed stare. “They’re not stupid, Stan. They talked to the girls. They know you have something to do with Esmerelda.”

Stan’s face went pale.

“Christsakes, they may have followed me here,” whimpered Lester, going to the window. Afraid, he peaked through the blinds. “They came after me. I’ve been driving all night, trying to lose them. I think I lost them…”

Sick to his stomach, Stan wandered to his kitchenette. There was an emergency bottle of Jack Daniels behind the coffee machine; this qualified as an emergency.

“Whaddya we do?” he muttered as he fumbled with the bottle.

“I don’t see anyone,” Lester said, peering out into the street. “But they could be-“

“**_LES!_**” shouted Stan. “**_What the fuck do we do?_**”

The other man closed his eyes in despair. “I’ve been thinking it over and over,” he groaned. “We gotta find that woman who was Esmerelda. Maybe – just maybe – if we give her to Little Jimmy, we can get past this.”

“That’s never gonna work,” Stan groused. “You remember that doll before I hypnotized her? She was easy on the eyes, sure, but she was a nervous wreck. Little Jimmy will know something’s up when he sees her.”

“Maybe,” Lester said. “Maybe not. Either way, who cares? We’d give him what he wants.”

Stan gulped the Jack Daniels straight from the bottle.

“That’s our only choice,” he admitted. “Either that, or leave town.”

Lester stumbled over, reaching for the bottle. “So we find the woman, you hypnotize her again, we give her to Little Jimmy. Only he doesn’t let her go this time. And if she can’t satisfy him… well, that’s **_her_** problem.” He nodded, taking a swig. “I like it. I like it.”

“Okay, genius,” the hypnotist said, yanking the bottle back. “So how do we find her?”

Lester had been up all night chain-smoking; the whiskey sent him into a coughing fit. “I got that,” he wheezed. “You remember when you hypnotized her? We took the Dazzler’s limo back to the club.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “So?”

“When you first zapped her, she was carrying… what was it? A man’s briefcase. Probably her husband’s. Where do you think we left that briefcase?”

Stan’s eyes widened. “In the limo?”

“Yeah,” nodded Lester. “In the limo.”

******

Five minutes later, the hypnotist and club owner dashed from Stan’s apartment and into Lester’s beat-up car. They fired up the smoke-belching engine, then sped off toward north Vegas.

They failed to notice the black sedan that was quietly tailing them. Bones the Thug was behind the wheel. He had been up all night, too. His bloodshot eyes glared as he kept up with Lester’s vehicle.

******

Back at the Packard household, Baby Tommy had gotten his early-morning diaper change and feeding. But Jack Jr. and Sally still hadn’t gotten their breakfasts. The children’s moods were growing darker as they sat at the table, impatiently watching their mother scrambling to slice up a cantaloupe.

“Where’s my food?” Jack Jr. scowled, kicking the legs of his chair.

“Mommeeee…” Sally said at the same time. “I don’t want canna-lope, I want sugar cereal.”

“Just a minute, my loves,” Katie said hurriedly, reaching to pop bread in the toaster.

“Where’s my food?” Jack Jr. demanded again, and now turned his question into an angry chant: “Where’s-my-food? Where’s-my-food? Where’s-my-food?”

“Mommeeee…!” wailed Sally. “I wanna watch Howdy Doody! I wanna-“

Baby Tommy, in his playpen, began to cry.

Katie felt something inside of her snap.

She whirled around, smacking both of her hands on the kitchen table.

“**_LISTEN, my loves,_**” she said sternly, a fiery glare in her eyes. “We are having **_cantaloupe_** and **_toast_** for breakfast. No sugar cereal. No TV. **_Then_**, we are walking to the park to play on the swings. After that, it will be peanut butter sandwiches and carrot sticks for lunch.” She smiled, a smile of love but determination. “Do you understand?”

Jack Jr. and Sally stared up at their mother. Even Baby Tommy seemed impressed.

******

“I got it! I got it!” Lester cried excitedly.

The tall, bald man backed out of the Dazzler limo, clutching a man’s briefcase in both hands. Immediately, Stan was next to him.

The two men were in the Dazzler’s small garage, huddled under a borrowed oil lamp that the club driver kept on the nearby shelf. They’d temporarily left Lester’s wheezing car parked out on the street.

“Open it!” the hypnotist said, staring at the briefcase.

Inside, they found Jack Sr.’s many handwritten notes, a stack of casino brochures, several entertainment contracts, and the Stardust’s venue policy, neatly typed up by Jack’s secretary. Stan couldn’t help but skim the policy.

“_’No stage hypnotists will be hired at the Stardust,’_” he read aloud in dismay, “_’as they provide a poor return in investment, plus loosen American morals?’_”

“Would you forget about yourself for a sec?” muttered Lester. “Wait! Wait!”

He unearthed one of the Packards’ telephone bills. The family’s address was neatly printed at the top.

“**_This_** is where she lives!” the strip club owner cried in triumph.

******

Outside, Bones was sitting in his sedan, wearily waiting for the two idiots to emerge from the garage.

The underworld thug was weary, and in a foul mood. He’d tailed that wretched Lester all night long, waiting to either catch the creep, or locate Esmerelda Amazonia. Whichever came first. Now, after driving all over Vegas all night, the stupid _deficient_e had returned to the Dazzler with his weirdo hypnotist friend. Bones wanted nothing more than to wring both men’s necks.

A knocking on the car window jolted the tired henchman.

Standing beside the driver’s window was Sammy “Knuckles” Graziano, one of Little Jimmy’s favorite enforcers. Knuckles was even bigger and tougher than Bones.

Bones rolled down the window, immediately nervous at the scowl on Knuckles’ face.

“What’s takin’ so long?” Knuckles wanted to know. “The boss, he’s been waiting up all night for this dame. You have her yet?”

“Lester’s givin’ me the runaround,” complained Bones. “I’m about to bash him in, if you know what I mean.”

Knuckles’ frown deepened. “Little Jimmy, he’s really bent out of shape, Bones. I never seen him like this before. I wouldn’t keep him waiting any more if… Oh shit!”

Both gangsters straightened as the door to the Dazzler banged open. Little Jimmy himself, his eyes bloodshot and his face twisted in rage, stormed from the club.

The don climbed into the sedan’s back seat without an invitation.

“G’morning, boss,” Bones said nervously.

“Where is she???” Little Jimmy bellowed. “Where???”

“Uhhh…” Bones winced.

At that moment, Lester and Stan appeared, climbing back into Lester’s jalopy. The engine turned over.

“Those two!” cried Bones. “They know where she is!” He hoped to God this was true.

Little Jimmy snapped his fingers, a sign that Knuckles was to climb into the sedan. “Follow ‘em,” the Mafia king growled to Bones.

******

Breakfast was served and eaten without any complaint from Jack Jr. and Sally. The two siblings played together, giggling infectiously, as Katie cleared the dishes.

The sound of a car door outside surprised her. Jack Sr. was coming up the walk!

Katie dried her hands, then hurried to the front door. “Hello, dear,” she said, surprised but delighted.

“Hi sweetheart,” her husband mumbled. “Darnedest thing. My nine AM canceled. Plus, I forgot this.” He stooped to pick up his replacement briefcase.

“Oh dear,” Katie said.

She braced herself for the verbal lashing. Jack Sr. expected her to send him off in the morning with lunch and briefcase. This was technically her fault.

But Jack Sr. didn’t seem angry. He watched his two older children playing in the living room. “How’d you get the kiddies to get along?” he asked, not without a little wonder.

Katie smiled and shrugged. “Well, I…”

“There you two are!” a harsh woman’s voice cut into the conversation.

Coming up the walk was Matilda. A pink leash was in her hands, her wretched little poodle trotting alongside her. The two had been out for a walk.

Jack Sr. groaned. “Ma…!” he protested.

“I’ve been thinking about you two all night,” Matilda said, her tone chilly. “And, Jackie, I **_really_** think you and I need to have a little talk with this irresponsible wife of yours.” The older woman plowed straight into the house, brushing aside Jack Sr. and Katie.

“Ma,” Jack Sr. growled, “I really should be heading back to work.”

“Pish posh!” cried Matilda. “This won’t take but five minutes. But Katie here has to learn that she’s here to do the woman’s work of this house.” She fixed her daughter-in-law with a terrible glare. “That means she can’t disappear for a day whenever she wants to, eh? Why, if I told my girlfriends about how irresponsible this young lady was yesterday…”

“Ma,” Jack Sr. said in exasperation.

There was a screech of tires out on the curb. Stan and Lester scrambled out of Lester’s rattletrap car and rushed up to the Packard’s door. It was hard to say which man looked more desperate. Or more rumpled.

“Say, what’s the meaning of this?” Jack Sr. scowled.

The hypnotist and club owner almost ignored him. With eager hands, they grabbed at Katie.

“We, uh, just need to talk with this young lady,” Lester said hurriedly. “Won’t be a second…”

“Hey!” Katie protested, fending off the two hucksters. She had no idea who either one was, even through Stan’s voice seemed… oddly familiar.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Stan insisted.

“Hey, I know you!” Jack Sr. said in indignation. “You’re that slimy stage hypnotist! We fired you last year for-“

“Clam it, Mac,” the hypnotist snarled.

“I knew it!” shrieked Matilda. To the alarmed Katie, she accused, “You’ve been canoodling with lowlifes, haven’t you?!?”

And then there was a minor scuffle as Katie, Jack Sr., Stan, and Lester all tried to assert themselves. Everything started to happen all at once, very quickly. Katie felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war.

“I’m calling the police!” shouted Matilda.

“Police?” Lester echoed in terror. “No, no! No police! No, that’s not necessary!”

“Oh, don’t you lecture me, you big lout,” Matilda thundered. The indignant older woman was just getting warmed up.

The poodle started up a stream of frenzied barking.

Stan made another desperate attempt to grab Katie by both arms. “Mrs. Packard,” he said very rapidly, “look into my eyes! Look deeper, and you’ll feel yourself-“

“Let go of me!” barked Katie. In fury, she stamped her heel on the hypnotist’s foot, as hard as she could.

Stan winced. “No, you don’t understand…”

“**_OH MY GOD!!!_**” Lester screamed in dismay.

The other adults followed his terrified gaze. A gleaming black sedan had pulled up to the sidewalk outside the Packards’ house. Little Jimmy, flanked by his two evil-looking henchmen, was now striding across the front yard.

******


	9. Esmerelda Amazonia:  Afterthoughts

** _There’s a lot of really good things in “Esmerelda Amazonia.” This one nearly made it!_ **

** _While doing research for “Congressional Detail,” I came across the case of Candy Jones, a 1940’s/50’s/60’s pinup girl and media personality. Candy claimed that the CIA hypnotized her to become a sleeper agent and experimented on her with mind control. I find a lot of Candy’s story to be highly dubious, but what intrigued me was the mention that under hypnosis, an alternate personality would emerge out of Candy’s subconscious. This second personality (named Arlene) was harsh, brash, and ideal for covert missions. Or something._ **

** _Thus, the inspiration for “Esmerelda Amazonia” was born. I love the idea of the meek housewife who, once hypnotized, discovers that she is really a fiery force-of-nature deep down inside. Setting the story in 1950’s Las Vegas, with its mix of sunny suburbia and sleazy strip clubs, was the icing on the cake to what I was certain would be a great screwball comedy._ **

** _Okay, so what went wrong?_ **

** _In my original plot outline, I wrote:_ **

  * Once the strip club owner, the hypnotist, the prissy mother-in-law, the poodle, the mafia don, the neglectful husband, and the gangsters all converge on Katie’s house, things seem to be speeding toward utter disaster. However, Katie goes into a trance and emerges as Esmerelda.
  * Esmeralda then asserts full control over the situation by the sheer force of her personality. Under her sharp tongue and no-nonsense attitude, everyone else is quickly put in their place. She uses her influence over Little Jimmy to convince him that hypnotist and strip club owner are scamming him.
  * Realizing that they are outmatched, Stan and Lester make a frantic getaway. Little Jimmy’s goons are in hot pursuit.
  * Esmerelda then tells Little Jimmy that she doesn’t really exist, that she’s the product of a hypnosis experiment gone awry. Heartbroken, Jimmy departs, promising to leave the Packard alone.
  * Later, we learn that Katie never actually went into a trance during that last scene. She’s merely learned to tap into Esmeralda when the need arises. Her husband is suddenly delighted to take her into the bedroom.

** _On paper, this story looked like a sure winner. It was only when I arrived at the climactic scene that I realized… there’s a major plot problem there._ **

** _The problem is the moment where Esmerelda breaks Little Jimmy’s heart. With horror, I realized that there was NO WAY Little Jimmy would take such news well. Little Jimmy is a guy who simply takes what he wants. If people get in the way, they get hurt; Jimmy’s fine with that. And good luck getting Jimmy to change his mind. About anything._ **

** _So it just doesn’t make any sense that Jimmy would accept that his dream woman was a hypnosis-inspired fantasy and walk away. If anything, Jimmy should kidnap both Katie and Stan and force them to bring Esmerelda back to life for him._ **

** _You may think I’m going a little overboard with this kind of character analysis. But I take this stuff really seriously. If I were to moderate Little Jimmy’s character, suggest that he’s really a big softie deep down, that damages integrity of the story in other ways. No, I feel that Jimmy’s got to be a dangerous menace, or else the earlier scenes don’t have quite the same thrill._ **

** _So if Little Jimmy remains a cutthroat ruffian, how the heck does Esmerelda convince him to give up his love for her and leave the Packards unharmed?_ **

** _I realized this plot hole, and immediately “Esmerelda Amazonia” came to a crashing halt. I had painted myself into a corner._ **

** _There’s another, smaller problem with that climax scene. I also think that Jack Sr., Katie’s husband, would be apoplectic if he was to learn that his wife had sex with another man. I don’t think Jack would be moved much even knowing that Katie was hypnotized at the time. So that was another headache._ **

** _I really like the crazy premise of “Esmerelda.” I still think this story could work… providing that the climax scene could be ironed out._ **


	10. You Know You Want To:  Chapter One

** _John Milton Hay High School_ **

** _Greenwood, Indiana -- September 2008_ **

“Oh… wow,” Emma breathes.

“Em…!” I say, annoyed.

We are at my locker, right in that frantic moment between third and forth periods. This is when I’m supposed to drop off my Calc, Stat, and AP History books, grab my lunch, and figure out what I need for study hall. I have, like, thirty seconds **_if I’m lucky_**. A wrong choice here can doom me to an afternoon of low productivity, which I’ll have to make up schoolwork after practice. How the fuck did I get so screwed by the Gods of Scheduling?

“Oh trust me, Elaine,” Emma giggles, “you wanna see this.”

I purse my lips together, grab my French text and the spare notebook. And then I follow my friend’s gaze.

Walking down the hallway, cutting a wide swath through the other students, is that Spencer Jordan guy. Ohhhhhhh, you haven’t seen him yet? The boy is an Adonis. Perfect, perfect, perfect. He has crystal brown eyes, a rugged complexion, square jaw, muscles everywhere, and the longest, thickest hair I’ve even seen on a guy. Spencer looks like the Marlboro Man’s much younger, hotter brother, cross-bred with the DNA of Zac Effron, James Marsden, and the filler cast of The Bachelorette. He’s like a genetic hotness experiment blew up the lab and escaped to thrill the hearts of young women everywhere.

No-one knows where this Spencer came from. Supposedly, he and his Dad moved to Greenwood just last month. (Poor guy! Can you imagine, moving to a new school for your senior year?) Everyone arrived for the first day of school, and this Spencer was among us. Supposedly he has a band, and he tours, and he models, or at least he’s turned down offers to model… well, we can’t separate the rumors from the real biography.

Spencer passes Emma and me, but he doesn’t so much glance up from his smartphone. We can’t help but stare as he walks away.

Jesus, what an attitude on this guy! Smartphones are forbidden in school, yet Spencer has his out like he just doesn’t give a fuck. Wow.

“Look at it go…!” Emma mumbles, and its obvious she’s now talking about Spencer’s ass. His tight, bubble-butt, perfectly-packaged-in-those-jeans ass. I’m not much of an ass girl, but… damn.

The object of our lust strides on, and soon he vanishes down the hallway.

The bell rings.

“Oh shit!” I moan, randomly grabbing my AP Chemistry text. Then I slam my locker shut. Emma and me whirl about and race down the corridor.

**********

Emma and I arrive at study hall exactly sixty seconds late. Why’d they have to put study hall in Room 114, at the end of the Main Corridor?

“Ladies,” Mr. Turrington says ominously as we stampede into the door. “Tardy behavior earns demerits, you know that.”

“Aw, pleeeeeease, Mr. Turrington,” I whine. “My locker is down by Room 243, its not fair-“

“Sorry girls,” Turrington drawls, and hands both me and Emma a pink slip.

Goddamnit.

Emma and I slink to a back table. I open my notebook, scan my assignments, and decide to work on French. I hate French. But I need a B+ if I have any hope of going to Stanford next year. Gotta slug it out one more year.

I’m halfway through my past tense irregular verbs when Emma hisses, “Fuck! Heads down!”

I know what’s coming our way. With a feeling of dread, I scrutinize my notebook even harder.

Another student approaches us. I feel her ominous presence even before her shadow falls across my paper. The air grows colder, as if all hope and love in the world has died.

“Well, hello there, girlfriends,” a honey-sweet voice chimes.

I look up, cringing inside. Looming over me is Courtney Dupree. **_The _**Courtney Dupree. The Courtinator, Her Royal Highness herself, the reigning queen of the Class of ’08, She-Who-Controls-All-Our-Lives, the Teen Empress. She gazes down at me with a mixture of fake delight and loathing.

Aw geez, you gotta see Courtney Dupree in the flesh to know what a force of nature she is. Courtney is the youngest daughter from one of the oldest, richest, whitest families in Indiana. A spoiled princess from the moment she was born, she has spent a fortune on making herself look dazzling. She has the designer clothes, the school-appropriate bling, the accessories, the perfect makeup, the bouncy blonde hair, the works. Even her perfume may be custom.

One thing I’ll give Courtney, she is gorgeous. Flawless complexion (of course), high cheekbones, cool green eyes, red lips, shining white teeth, a smile that dazzles… Courtney’s got it all. I’d seriously kill for her beauty. And while I have the in-shape athlete’s body, Courtney has the natural curves of a swimsuit model. Men lust after her, hypnotized by that body, those eyes, those bouncing blonde curls.

I shrink back as Courtney smiles at me. She smiles as if she both pities and despises me… which she probably does.

“What’s up, Miss Elaine Park?” the Princess of Greenwood asks me. She has a classic Hoosier accent, and somehow when she addresses you by your full name, she makes it sound like a grave insult.

“Its all good, Courtney,” I manage.

“I’m soooo glad to hear it,” Courtney oozes. She sits across from me and smiles again, in that predatory way of hers. I want to shudder.

At that moment, Mr. Turrington drifts by. He eyes the three of us with suspicion.

“Ladies?” he rumbles. “This is study hall, not social hour. I don’t want to have to give you three demerit slips.”

“Oh, we are studying, Mr. Turrington,” Courtney assures him, immediately switching into a giggly bimbo. “We’re studying. For a history exam.”

My textbook is clearly a French book. Emma is working on Trig. And Courtney has no books with her at all. So the Blonde Troublemaker is clearly lying through her teeth.

Nevertheless, she smiles up at Mr. Turrington, twirling a stand of her hair between her fingers and batting her eyes. The Social Studies teacher is no match for her sexy charms.

“Oh,” he mumbles, smiling like a dope. “Well, okay, then.” He shuffles off.

Fuck me! Why can’t I get away with shit like that?!?

“So, Elaine,” Courtney says, getting back to business. “Word is that your parents are away this Friday, eh?”

I feel my stomach flip. “No, that’s not so…” I say carefully.

“No?” Courtney’s eyes flash. She doesn’t like being corrected.

“Well,” I say quickly, “my _Appa_ is out of town for a conference. My _Eomma_ is home, though.”

“_Appa?_” drawls Courtney. “_Eomma?_ Is that, what, Chinese or something?”

“Korean,” I murmur. “We’re Korean.”

“Korean, right,” Courtney says with an annoyed eye roll. “Okay: so Daddy Dearest is gone. But doesn’t your mom work late night shifts?”

I can feel Emma tense next to me. My best friend is sending me frantic mental messages: _Lie! Lie! Lie!_

But Courtney will determine the truth. She always does.

“Yeah,” I admit, “_Eomma_ is working night shifts at the hospital this week.”

“Awesome,” the blonde goddess declares, her expression glowing. “So… I have good news. **_You_** are going to host a little get-together for some of our class’s coolest people. Aren’t you excited?”

I glance at Emma. “Oh, Courtney,” I say slowly, thinking as quickly as I can, “I don’t know, this isn’t a good week-“

“**_Of course_** its a good week,” Courtney interrupts. “Don’t be silly. I’d do it at my house, but my annoying cousins from Milwaukee are crashing with us. Troglodytes.” She huffs in annoyance. “So my misfortune is your gain, sweetheart!”

I have to interrupt here and explain that Courtney is exactly like a Mafia don in Brandy Melvilles. You don’t refuse her. Ever. She controls the gossip mill, and she can crush your life with a text or a gesture to one of her minion friends. Courtney feels that everyone she surveys needs to be humiliated in ways great and small, and Lord help you if she decides your humiliation needs to be great.

I’m seriously scared of Courtney. You would be too, if you’d seen what she’s done to the poor souls who have displeased her.

Choosing every word very carefully, I say, “Geez, Courtney, my house is… you know, really small. I’m not sure a party would-“

“Who said anything about a party?” interrupts the Blonde Overlord. “Elainey, this is a small get-together! Among friends! Why, after this is all over, you’ll be thanking me, I promise.”

She pauses, searching my face carefully. “I’m bringing several cute guys,” she promises. “And my ex-boyfriend. You remember Gerhard?”

I remember Gerhard. I’m not sure what country his parents immigrated from, but Gerhard was a senior when Emma, Courtney, and I were all wee freshmen. Courtney dated him, them dumped him in spectacular fashion.

Unable to reign in her curiosity, Emma blurts out, “Oh, so you’re back with Gerhard now?”

“No,” recoils Courtney, her face momentarily snake-like. Emma goes white and leans back.

“No, Gerhard and I are just friends now,” Courtney says, her tone sweet again. “Just friends.”

“Listen,” she says to me, rising to her feet. “I gotta fly. Text me when your mom leaves on Friday, and the rest of us will be over. ‘Kay? You’re a good friend.”

And with that, Courtney is gone.

**********

You probably think I’m an idiot for obeying Courtney’s commands, don’t you?

I thought about defying her. I could claim that my mom was unexpectedly released from her night shift and thus would be home on Friday. But Courtney has spies all over Greenwood. That bitch would actually follow up on my story and determine if my mom was working or not. I’d never survive the fallout of Courtney’s wrath.

So on Friday, I wait on pins and needles for my mom to leave for work. “You have good time,” she tells me in her Korean accent strong as she bustles out to the car. “Not to stay up late! Not past-“

“I know Mom, I know, I know,” I grouse. “G’wan, you’ll be late.”

After my mom drives off, I attack the whole house with air freshener. Our place smells like pickled cabbage and Hongeo. My efforts don’t do much, but at least I tried. I also scramble to hide away all the Korean language DVDs that my dad left scattered about our basement entertainment center.

When I’m satisfied, I text Emma. **_Showtime_**, I write.

She texts back: **_Ill B right over_**

Good ol’ Emma. If our roles were reversed, and Courtney Dupree was forcing her way over to Emma’s house, I’m not sure I’d show up to be Emma’s support system. Courtney’s friends are about as scary as she is.

**********

At ten o’clock, my doorbell chimes. Emma and I jump. We know who that is.

Sure enough, Courtney sweeps into my house the moment I open the door. There are about eight people in her wake.

“Charming, charming, so charming,” Courtney declares, looking about my parents’ house with a withering stare. “You Parks, you live very well, don’t you?”

What a snobby bitch.

Courtney’s entourage file into our house, refusing to remove their shoes. (Shit! That means I’ll have to vacuum and maybe even mop before my mom gets home.) I recognize Daphne Higgins and Simone Waters from school, of course, but most of these boys I’ve never seen before. Are they **_college boys?_** They seem older. All of them look me and Emma up and down, and I’m grateful I wore a sweater and loose slacks, which hides my figure.

Oh, no. Two of the boys are carrying a cooler between themselves. They brought beer!

Too late to protest now. “Uh, I thought we could hang out downstairs?” I suggest. “Its cozier and a better hang spot.”

My mom is old-fashioned and covers the living room furniture with plastic. I know, I know, its like she **_wants_** to live in an issue of Better Homes and Gardens or something. Sooo embarrassing. So I’m praying that my guests don’t object and we can leave the precious living room intact for the evening.

Thankfully, Courtney doesn’t object. I lead the party downstairs.

**********

Our basement is a little musky and dim. But when I was ten, my _Appa_ laid down some simple carpet and then moved in a set of cheap sofas to line the walls. There’s some sports memorabilia mounted over the old TV in the corner. Occasionally, Dad sets up the poker table, but we rarely use this room much.

But as a teenage hideout, the basement is perfect. Immediately, Courtney claims a couch and is flanked by one boy on each side. Everyone else sits. Daphne Higgins wraps her arms around a boy and starts snogging as if the rest of us aren’t even there. Emma and I sit on the floor, in the corner.

Immediately, the cooler is opened and cans of beer are passed around. I decline when one if offered to me; my mom will smell it on me if I have but a sip.

The others start drinking and gossiping. Courtney, in particular, is in her element. I’ve observed that she’s only truly happy when she’s spreading something malicious about someone else.

**********

A half-hour in, I’m beginning to wonder how long this little shindig is going to last. _Eomma_ won’t be home until six AM, but I need to clear these people out of here, scrub the house down, and still get some sleep before then.

“Okay, okay, you guys,” Courtney announces loudly. All conversation – and making out – ceases as we turn to face her.

“So, as you guys know,” drawls Courtney, “my good buddy Gerhard is in town, right?” She gestures to a tall college guy, flopped on the opposite couch. He’s skinny with a bad, shaggy haircut and a Godawful Coldplay tee-shirt. I almost didn’t recognize him.

“Yo, Gerhard,” another boy calls out, pretending to meet him for the first time.

“I thought you were going to Oberlin,” Simone Waters asks Gerhard. “What, you skipped a semester or-“

“Yeah, yeah, we all know, Gerhard’s a big loser,” Courtney crassly interrupts. “Never mind that. You guys know why I wanted to get together and why I just **_had_** to have Gerhard come?”

She pauses, letting the suspense tingle in the air.

“Because Gerhard knows hypnotism!” squeals Courtney. “Yeah, that’s right! He was a Psych major.”

There’s an immediate reaction from all my guests. “Fuck no!” is a common response.

“Hypnosis is bullshit,” asserts Simone. “My dad hired a hypnotist to straighten me out, when he thought I was on suicide watch, or something.” She gags at the memory.

“No, no,” Gerhard says, sitting up. “Its totally real.”

“Its **_totally real_**, you guys,” gushes Courtney. “I’ve seen it.”

“You got hypnotized by Gerhard?” one of Courtney’s boys asks, stunned.

“What? No! Ewww,” the Blonde Mastermind snaps. “No, it was over at- Well, never mind where. But I saw him… whaddya call it… hypno some other people. And it was **_fucking hilarious._**”

“So,” she finishes playfully, “I thought while Gerhard is in town, we could have some fun tonight, eh? Let’s hypnotize some of you. Let’s see, who should…”

Courtney scans the faces of all of us. I notice several of her friends are suddenly and completely interested in their phones.

“You!” Courtney says, pointing. “You, what’s your name? Emma? Yeah, let’s hypnotize that Emma chick.”

Emma makes a small, frightened sound in the back of her throat.

“Yeah!” the others chorus.

Immediately, a space for Emma is cleared on Gerhard’s couch.

“Com’on, girl,” commands Courtney. “It’ll be fun. You’re with friends.”

Emma slides a terrified look at me. “I don’t want to get hypnotized…!” she protests.

“Com’on,” Courtney repeats, and this time, she doesn’t look so forgiving.

I swallow. Oh, man, this is just awful. Courtney’s only hobby in life is to denigrating those in her wide orbit. With hypnosis at her disposal…? Jesus, the thought is terrifying. I want to grab Emma and scream, _Let’s run for it!_

But there is no escape. Trembling like a leaf, Emma rises from the floor and sits next to Gerhard. Her slender, pretty Asian body looks tiny and insignificant between the college boys.

“Good,” purrs Courtney. To Gerhard, she commands, “Make Emma here go deep. I want her to be so zonked out, she has no idea what she’s doing.”

“Close your eyes, please,” Gerhard says, standing up to loom over my best friend. Emma bites her lip, but does as she is told.

“Everyone, shut up, please,” the older boy intones. “Only Emma listens to the sound of my voice, get me?”

And then, Gerhard starts speaking. I am amazed at how his gruff voice becomes soft and gentle, continuously flowing like a bubbling mountain stream. His words flow on and on and there seems to be no beginning nor ending to any of his sentences.

Gerhard speaks about how Emma is growing calm, relaxed, peaceful. Her arms are relaxed. Her legs are relaxed. Her neck and hands and feet and stomach – all relaxed. The more he speaks, the more she concentrates, the better and better she feels. Gerhard weaves all kinds of imagery into his narrative, taking Emma on a long, imaginary journey around the world.

Other than the hypnotist’s voice, the room is deathly silent. I can hear the faint buzzing of the electric lights in the drop ceiling.

In fact, I’m becoming aware of a lot of things. I can hear the loud mouth-breathing of the guy on the nearest couch. I can feel the hard floor and thin carpet under my butt. I can tell the air is a little damp and can smell the dust. The springs in the couch creak a little when someone shifts their weight.

I don’t want to move. Like, I don’t have the slightest desire to move even a single muscle. I don’t even want to blink, although I do, very slowly. My body – its weird – my body feels like its turned into concrete. Like, I am now an Elaine statue, just sitting here. Its an oddly nice feeling.

My eyes are heavy, and they close all on their own.

“And now, Emma,” Gerhard commands, “you will feel yourself forgetting, forgetting everything that worries you right now. As I count from ten to one, you will forget and feel a hundred times wonderful. Ready? Here we go…”

Now Gerhard is counting, but I’m barely following along. I feel as if I’m going into a dream, or something. Am I alone? Or are there people near me? I can’t remember. Oh well… Doesn’t matter.

Mmm… I like this feeling.

“One!” says Gerhard. He sounds a little worried. “Er, now focus your concentration on your wrists, Emma. You’ll find that as you relax deeper and deeper, you will feel balloons pulling your arms high, high into the air. Imagine them, Emma. Your arms will rise… Rise, **_now._**”

There is a silence in the room.

“Rise, **_now_**,” repeats Gerhard.

I let my thoughts drift. It would be so easy to imagine balloons, red balloons, tied around my own wrists, wouldn’t it? I can see those balloons. There they are, bobbing about in the air, against a bright blue sky. Red balloons, blue sky. I like that. My arms **_are_** feeling lighter.

“What’s wrong?” Courtney says, her voice unpleasant.

“She’s…” Now Gerhard sounds worried. “Emma’s not responding.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” harrumphs Courtney. “I thought you said you were good.”

“Not everyone can be hypnotized,” Gerhard says sheepishly.

“Sorry,” chirps Emma, not sounding sorry at all.

Gerhard is still trying to explain. “Its just that-“

“Holy shit!” Daphne Higgins cries. “Look at **_Elaine!_**”

There is a collective gasp in the room. I wonder what is so weird.

“Why’re her arms up in the air like that?” a college boy asks. “That’s so fucking weird.”

“**_Elaine is hypnotized,_**” Courtney exclaims, sounding delighted. “Gerhard, you fucking idiot, you hypnotized the wrong Asian.”

What’s she talking about? I just feel… really… good. Relaxed, unwilling to move, but good.

Footsteps approach me, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder. “On the count of three, Elaine,” Gerhard’s voice says to me, “you will open your eyes, stand up, and sit on the couch. Ready? One… two… three.”

I allow my eyes to open. They feel weighed down, but I get them open all the same.

Everyone in the room is staring at me in wonder. Emma, moving away from the couch, looks horrified, as if I’m about to be shot at dawn. And Courtney, she looks ecstatic. I wonder what’s going on.

For no other reason except that I suddenly want to, I rise, and move to the nearest couch. A college boy scurries out of my way, and I sit down. I feel lightheaded.

“Elaine?” Gerhard asks. I look up at him. “Sleep…!” he tells me.

Suddenly everything goes dark. I feel myself slump against the cushions like a marionette without strings. I feel even better than before. This feeling is wonderful…!

“Elaine is out,” Gerhard reports to the group. “She’s under. She’s under **_deep._**”

“So awesome!” Courtney squeals, clapping her hands. “Now… what can you make her do?”

**********


	11. You Know You Want To:  Chapter Two

I have lost track of the conversation between Courtney, Gerhard, and everyone else in the room. I just feel so relaxed, so… I can’t describe it. Its like my body has been wrapped in a warm blanket and I’ll never need to move again. I couldn’t care less about **_anything_** right now.

I’m vaguely aware that Courtney and Gerhard are discussing me. I suppose I could tune in and pay attention to them… but that seems like work. And I ain’t doing no work, not right… Mmm…

Wait. Gerhard is counting up. That feels important. Why, in a moment, he’ll reach ten, and then-

**********

“Ten!” Gerhard cried.

I sit upright, my eyes springing open. What just happened?

I’m not sure. I’m on one of dad’s couches. Wasn’t I sitting on the floor?

Everyone is watching me closely, very closely, like I just farted or something and I should apologize. What the hell?

“Hey there, sunshine,” Courtney beams.

“Hi,” I say uncertainly. “So… um… everyone having a good time?”

Courtney cackles in glee. “Oh shit!” she claps, “Elaine doesn’t remember! This is awesome!”

“Remember what?” I ask.

Gerhard reaches forward and touches me on my forehead.

My thoughts dissolve. Suddenly, I leap to my feet, striking a dancer’s pose. Shaking my booty, I sing at the top of my lungs:

** _ I probably shouldn't say this_ **

** _ But at times I get so scared_ **

** _ When I think about the previous_ **

** _ Relationship we shared _ **

My audience explodes with laughter.

Why are they laughing? I’m Miley Cyrus, for freakin’ sakes! Don’t they know top talent when they see it?

Doesn’t matter. I’ve gotta sing my song. I continue, dancing around the room, making it sexy.

Courtney rolls on her couch, holding her sides as she roars with laughter. I ignore her, and dance on.

“Okay, okay,” Courtney eventually gasps, waving at Gerhard. “Make her stop, just for a sec.”

“Okay, Miley,” the college boy tells me, smiling widely. “You can stop singing now.”

Instantly, the desire to perform is gone. I scoff, standing on one leg, so my sexy hips jut out.

“She totally thinks that she’s Miley Cyrus?” Simone Waters asks, incredulous. “How is that possible?”

“She’s hypnotized,” Gerhard says proudly. “Go on, ask her.”

Simone turns to me. “Chick, who are you?”

“You don’t know?” I retort, offended. “I’m Miley Cyrus. I’m, like, way more famous and cooler than you.”

Everyone roars with laughter again. I couldn’t care less.

“Elaine, Elaine,” Gerhard says, coming to stand next to me. “Look at me? Good. Sleep!”

**********

Once again, everything goes dark. I’m back in the super-relaxation. I love this sensation.

“I want to command her,” Courtney declares. “Gerhard, make it so that I can give her hypnotic suggestions.”

“Well…” Gerhard sounds doubtful.

“Dude,” huffs Courtney. “You want to get lucky? I can make that happen. Not with me, of course, but with someone else, someone hot. You want that? Take it or leave it.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Elaine,” Gerhard says to me. “In a moment, you’ll wake up again. You’ll be you again, with no memory of going into hypnosis or anything you’ve done since going under. You understand?”

I don’t understand, but my head nods once, anyway.

“Good,” compliments Gerhard. “Now, here’s the most important part… Any time Courtney tells you to do something and then says the phrase, ‘_You know you want to,_’ you must carry out Courtney’s instructions, just as if I were telling you to do it while you are in hypnosis. Understand?”

A part of me realizes that maybe… just maybe… I should be alarmed at these words. But for the life of me, I couldn’t care less. I just feel so relaxed and wonderful right now. Of course I’ll follow Courtney’s instructions whenever she says that phrase. That sounds fine. I nod again.

“Wonderful,” Gerhard tells me. “And now, you’ll awaken again, with no memory of anything that we’ve just done or discussed. One… two… three… four…”

**********

“Five!” says Gerhard.

I blink, becoming aware that I am standing in the middle of the basement. How weird. Wasn’t I sitting down earlier…?

Ah, who cares. I feel pretty good.

Everyone is again looking at me with hypercurious eyes. It’s a little disconcerting, to tell you the truth.

“What?” I ask my peers.

“Nothing, sweetie, nothing,” Courtney assures me. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” I say truthfully. “Relaxed.”

“Okay,” replies the Blonde Boss. A wicked grin folds across her face. “Say, don’t you want to be in your underwear right now? _You know you want to._”

My brain skips for a moment.

“My underwear?” I echo, thinking about that.

Yes. Yes! Yes, I **_do_** want to be in my underwear.

Without much consideration, I kick off my shoes, then unzip my slacks.

“Oh my fuckin’ God,” exclaims Daphne Higgins as I slide my pants off. She laughs. “There’s **_no way_** you’re hypnotizing me!”

I disregard her as I pull my sweater then undershirt over my head. There. Now I’m in my underwear. That feels better.

“Very good,” murmurs Courtney, pleased. “Now, Elaine… turn about. Slowly. Sexy pose for us. _You know you want to._”

Suddenly I must revolve slowly, like a mannequin at JC Penny’s. I hold my head up high, place my hands on my hips, and extend one leg.

My admirers fall silent, their appreciative eyes washing over my body.

“My, my,” Courtney remarks. “You know, I’ve always wanted to see this Asian chick’s muscles. She does track and basketball and gymnastics and all that shit, so you know she’d be crazy buff. And… damn.”

“You a homo, Courtney?” one of the guys has the gall to ask.

“No!” snarls the Queen Bee. “No, why do guys always assume that?” She angrily tosses her hair. “No, I wanted to see Little Miss Oriental here without those frumpy outfits she always wears. I was gonna show you guys her boobs, but forget about **_that_** now.”

“Aww…” the dude groans.

As I turn, my disinterested glance rests on Emma, who has squeezed herself into the far corner. She looks at me with raw horror etched into her face.

How can I explain this to her? Look, I **_have_** to stand here in my underwear and model for these guys. I **_have_** to.

“Elaine’s got crazy buff gluties,” observes Courtney. “She could do nude butt shots. If she wasn’t, you know, so skinny and Asian.”

“Yeah, but check out her stomach,” Simone Waters chimes in. “I couldn’t get that flat six-pack if I worked all year.”

“You like processed meat and sausage too much,” Courtney tells her cruelly. “That’s why you like Matt Kallen’s cock under the bleachers.”

Simone turns bright red.

“Mmm, I’m already bored,” Courtney announces, still studying my trim form. “Let’s make this more interesting, shall we?”

Her Royal Blondness looks at one of the guys, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Tuck, how much do you love me?”

“You’re hot, baby,” Tuck replies, not getting her drift.

“Listen,” Courtney says warmly, “if I were to reward you grandly, would you lend me your Corvette? Saaaaay, for a weekend?”

“A whole weekend?” the guy says reluctantly.

“Just say yes, dude,” frowns Courtney. Tuck shrugs.

“Done, and done,” smiles our ringleader. She turns to me. “Okay, Elaine, you now want to put Tuck’s balls in your mouth. And really give him a good time. _You know you want to._”

“Oh no,” we hear Emma gasp.

But I disregard my friend’s odd despair. What was I thinking about? What do I want to do?

Oh yes.

“Hey there,” I say to Tuck, and move to unzip his pants. “Can I see something? For just a second?”

Tuck’s mouth drops open. But he allows me to strip off his jeans and underwear. Man, the dude wears tightie whities? Ugh, even I know that’s a bad look.

“Hey, hey,” Tuck stammers as I gently but firmly grip his penis. His panicked eyes flash to the other women in the room.

“Hey, relax,” I say easily. “I just have to do something, won’t take a minute, okay? Here, slouch forward, put your butt out over the edge of the couch? Nice. Thanks. Okay, hold on…”

Working out the physics, I lower myself to the floor, pushing my head under Tuck’s legs. Holy shit, this guy has some hairy legs. And hairy balls! Damn!

It doesn’t matter. I have to suck them.

I reposition Tuck’s hairy legs, then realize that I’ll need to kneel before him to do this. So I squat onto my haunches, place my hands on his inner thighs, then stretch my lips forward.

His testies are salty to the taste, but not unpleasant. In fact…

I open my jaw all the way, using my lips to guide Tuck inside my mouth.

In fact… he actually tastes nice. Mmm. Who knew? Men’s testicles are delicious to suck on!

“Holy… fuck…” one of the guys says in awe. Otherwise, the room is silent.

I lean forward now, pushing my chin against Tuck’s body. His balls fill my mouth, and I love it. I lick them with appreciation, loving how my slimy tongue can explore them.

Meanwhile, Tuck is breathing heavily. His shaft is erect, and his legs are trembling. His body is responding to my mouth. I stimulate him.

So I moan, loudly, once, and begin to suck harder. My mouth is filling with saliva. I’m starting to dribble out the side of my lips. I don’t care. This is hot.

“Oh, fuck me,” Tuck cries, his voice warbling.

I reach up with my free hand, and absently pet his cock with the back of my fingers.

Suddenly, Tuck groans and kicks, and I know his cock has come alive. I feel warm, hot semen running down his shaft, into my hair and onto my cheek.

Strangely, I feel triumphant. I made a man cum! With his peers watching! That’s not easy, you know.

So I give another happy moan. I begin to slow down my sucking.

Tuck’s dick stops flowing, and then starts to shrink. Amazingly, I can feel his balls start to recede, too. What, once men’s testicles squirt out their payload, they lose mass? I guess, scientifically speaking, that makes sense.

Finally, I spit Tuck out and then sit up on my haunches. Ewww! I’ve got drying cum in my hair! Why didn’t this gross me out earlier?

As I leap to my feet to find the bathroom, Courtney breaks out into riotous laughter. “Oh my God!” she crows. “And you losers wanted to just get high tonight!”

*********

The next morning, I wake from the strangest nightmare. I was under some sort of magic spell, and I had to do whatever Courtney Dupree commanded me to do. She was a cruel mistress, and I was forced to…

Oh God.

Its wasn’t a dream, was it?

I remember now, but just in bits and pieces… Somehow, I got hypnotized. I was placed under Courtney’s control, and then I…

EWWWW!!!

I sucked **_some guy’s balls?!? _** Oh, so gross!!!

I immediately swish with about a galleon of mouthwash. Then I brush and floss and brush and floss again, like I’m determined to wear down all the enamel on my teeth.

Jesus Christ!

I had no idea I was so suspectable to hypnosis. Thank God I didn’t volunteer for the hypnosis show at the Indiana State Fair last year. I would have wound up making a complete jackass of myself in front of the whole state.

My head still reeling, I limp from the bathroom.

My _Eomma_ is waiting for me in the hallway, indignant hands on her hips.

“_Eun-Kyung!_” she barks, using my Korean name. “Did you invite friends into house last night?”

She stabs an angry finger at the floor, where shoe and boot prints are clearly visible.

Aw, shit.

**********

I spend the weekend in the doghouse, forced to scrub our house from top to bottom. I’m a modern-day Cinderella. When I’m done, the place is spotless, but I reek of 409 All Purpose Cleaner and my hands are shriveled like prunes.

By Monday, I’m relieved to escape my mother’s prison and return to school. I blow a pop quiz in French, but get an A on my AP History paper. So the day’s not a total loss.

After school, I change into workout clothes and go to tennis practice. On days like the few I’ve just had, I wish I could go running. I could use the solitaire, the cleansing of my head, the simple focus on the track and the air and my legs. With tennis, you have to concentrate, and I’m not concentrating too well today. But practice goes okay.

After I shower off, I notice a few senior girls pointing at me and whispering. What are they talking about? Oh, God, I don’t want to know.

**********

Emma is strangely absent the next day. Maybe she’s home with a bug? I don’t know. I’ll text her later, when I get out of school.

So there I am, in that awkward moment between third and forth period, hurriedly changing my books in my locker. I have to move faster, because that jerkstore Turrington will absolutely give me more demerits if I’m more than a second late this time. What is up that teacher’s ass? Seriously, did he sit on a sharp stick, or some-

My eyes catch a beautiful, beautiful sight: Spencer Jordan, doing his daily swagger past my locker. I freeze, once again transfixed by his raw, sexy beauty. He doesn’t so much as glance at me – or any other kids – as he passes by.

Ah, well. A girl can dream, can’t she?

“He’s hot, right?” a female voice says in my ear.

I spin about. There, off my elbow, is Courtney. The Evil One is beaming at me.

“Hey Courtney,” I say uncertainly.

“Hey girlfriend,” she replies cheerfully. “Been lookin’ for ya.”

“Okay,” I say warily.

My Spidey-sense is tingling. Why is Courtney being so nice to me?

The bell rings. I’m officially late.

“Oh, fuck!” I curse, fumbling at my books.

“Hey, forget all that stuff,” urges Courtney. “Come with me for a sec, will ya? There’s something I want to show you.”

“Courtney,” I say, exasperated, “you may be able to flirt you way out of detention, but I really need-“

“Come with me,” repeats Courtney. “_You know you want to._”

I suddenly forget why it was so pressing to go to study hall. Why I cared about Mr. Turrington. Why I care about **_anything_**. I feel… unconcerned.

“This way, Elaine,” Courtney says gaily, and begins walking down the corridor.

I follow her automatically. I don’t even realize that I’ve left my locker wide open.

**********

Courtney leads me past the lunchroom, past gym storage, out past the old trophy case. We exit the school through double doors and hurry through the drizzling rain.

Soon, we are on the opposite side of the football field, squeezing into one of the storage sheds. The shed is emptied out because, well, its football season.

But inside, I find a small group of people: three of Courtney’s girlfriends, and Josh Mellon, our school’s star wrestler. Josh is, like, a full head taller than I am.

“I broooOOOooought her,” Courtney announces in a sing-song voice, and turns to gesture to me.

“Oh,” one of the girls says. She’s Stacey Hansen. “I know this chick. She’s Elaine Chin, or something?”

“Elaine Park,” I say, annoyed. Chin is a Chinese name. Why do all these stupid bitches always think I’m Chinese?

“Whatever,” sneers Stacey. “So, Elaine here is hypnotized?”

“Not now,” Courtney says. “But Gerhard put her under like dropping a sack of bricks into the lake. When she’d responding to suggestions, Elaine here is like my slave.”

“I am not your slave!” I cry, aghast.

“No?” smirks Courtney. “Call me ‘_Mistress._’ _You know you want to_.”

I can’t think for a second. “Yes, Mistress,” I automatically say.

The other girls burst into wicked giggles. “Oh my God, oh my God!” Dana Poechant shrieks. “She said it! She actually said it!”

Did I? I don’t recall saying anything unusual.

The girls all begin plotting. “So what are you going to do with her?” Melanie Meddle asks, eyeing me as if I’m a pet.

“You’re not doing anything with me!” I exclaim, clenching my fists.

But the girls ignore me.

Shit! Clearly, I’m still under the power of Gerhard’s hypnotism. I thought hypnosis wears off? It does wear off, doesn’t it? I’ve gotta do something before-

As if guessing my thoughts, Courtney stands before me. “You know Josh Mellon, don’t you, Elaine?” she asks me. “Everyone knows Josh.”

“Yeah,” I allow.

“Well,” Courtney says, drinking in the moment, “I think you need to give Joshie here a big ol’ blow job. So he’s relaxed for his match tonight. _You know you want to._”

Oh.

You know, she’s right. I should blow Josh. He really deserves it.

“Okay, that’s cool,” I admit.

As the other girls stare with bulging eyes, I move to Josh, undoing his belt buckle. “Hey,” I say to him warmly. “How’s it going?”

“Yeah…” is all the astonished Josh can say right now.

I smile knowingly. Then I unzip Josh, get on my knees, and pull down the boy’s underwear. Holy shit, Josh is huge! I’m glad I’m only orally pleasuring him. If I had to do any other kind of sex where this monster penetrated me… Jesus, I’d break!

“You see?” Courtney says matter-of-factly. She’s dipping into her purse, and removes her smartphone. “One sec, Elaine, hold on…”

I patiently wait while she calls up her phone’s camera.

“Hey,” Josh says in alarm.

“Relax,” Courtney says, not kindly. “No-one’s gonna see your face. Okay, go ahead, Elainey…”

I pull out erect Josh, even more impressed to see him at full length. Josh is huge! He’s like a bull!

Well, someday Mrs. Josh can enjoy riding this monster. Too big for me. But not for my mouth.

I summon some spit, then go to work. Josh’s tip fits nicely in my mouth. I begin to slurp on his cock.

“Heh,” Courtney smirks as she films. “See? Elaine truly is my slave. She’ll do whatever the fuck I want now.”

“Holy. Fucking. Shit,” is all Melanie can say.

I begin to build up speed.

“So why are you filming Elaine?” Dana wants to know. “Are you gonna put this on Porn YouTube, or something?”

“Naw,” Courtney chuckles. “They have laws against revenge porn now, didn’t you hear? You can get arrested for posting shit like this without the consent of the people in the frame.” She sounds like her lawyer father. “But who knows? Maybe I have to blackmail Elaine someday. She’ll be in my power forever after this.”

I’m half-listening. Josh’s manhood is swelling even more under my influence, and I’m starting to get aroused myself. I hope he cums like a mother.

“How long is Gerhard in town?” asks Stacey.

“**_Pffht_**,” Courtney replies. “The stupid asshole flunked out of Oberlin. So he’s living at home with his parents. What a loser.”

“But I’ve got that dork wrapped around my little finger,” she continues, moving the smartphone camera closer to my lips. “He’ll do more hypnosis sessions for me, as long as he thinks there’s the faintest chance that I’ll fuck him again.” She snorts. “Which I never will. Idiot.”

“So… you’ll make Gerhard hypnotize more kids at the school?” says Dana.

“Duh,” sneers the Queen Bee. “Of course I fucking will.”

Josh groans. His hot cum begins to fill my waiting mouth. I smile a little, and slow the blow job down.

**********


	12. You Know You Want To:  Afterthoughts

** _My original inspiration for “You Know You Want To” came from rewatching Mean Girls for the billionth time. I thought it would be fun to have a high school story where a superpopular bitch (Courtney) gains hypnotic power over one of her lesser peers (Elaine). The two girls would then battle for control of Elaine’s mind, with Spencer Jordan being the trophy that the winning girl claims. Its kinda a contrived idea… but I thought I might be able to pull it off._ **

** _I plotted out the entire story, and here’s how it was supposed to end:_ **

** _**********_ **

Elaine realizes the depth of her hypno-problem after the blow job scene. She tries to resist Courtney in subsequent scenes, but falls deeper under the other girl’s control. Things look bleak for our heroine.

But then, Courtney decides to force Elaine to seduce Spencer Jordan, the superhottie we saw in Chapter 1. Because she’s a psychopath, Courtney wants Elaine to publicly crash and burn when Spencer rejects her.

But the plan backfires. Under hypnosis, Elaine is outgoing and confident, and she dazzles Spencer from the get-go. Spencer asks Elaine out, and suddenly Elaine has an unexpected boyfriend. Elaine’s new problem is without the hypnosis, she is shy and dull. What to do?

Worse, we learn that Courtney wanted Spencer all for herself. So the Blonde Bitch flies into a jealous rage and tries to hypnotize Elaine to dump Spencer in a very public way.

The climax: Elaine turns the tables. She finds another hypnotist, an ethical hypnotist, who removes Gerhard’s programming and instills Elaine with a confidence to just relax and be herself around Spencer. Courtney is thus thwarted, Elaine gets her dream guy, and we arrive at a happy ending.

** _**********_ **

** _Okay, so what went wrong?_ **

** _I made a colossal rookie mistake right off the bat: I based Courtney off of a real person I once knew in high school. In all my stories, I have always made a point to only work with original characters. So when diving into “You Know You Want To,” I foolishly thought I would be saving time by channeling the real-life Courtney._ **

** _So wrong!_ **

** _I rapidly found that writing Courtney’s scenes was like climbing a ladder in a straightjacket. Every time my Courtney did something villainous, I started feeling guilty. Sure, the real-life Courtney was a horrible bitch to me, but was it right to use her like this? I started wincing whenever the on-the-page Courtney did something horrible or said something racist. It just wasn’t right. It made writing for the character like pulling teeth. And it utterly killed my enthusiasm for this story._ **

** _(I’ve also gotta quickly state: The real-life Courtney’s true name is NOT Courtney Dupree. Elaine is a completely fictional character.)_ **

** _I have some other problems with “You Know You Want To.” My regular readers will know that I like to ground my fictional hypnotism in a little bit of reality. (There are exceptions, like the mind control drug used in “Congressional Detail.”) But the hypnosis scenes in “YKYWT” were just too ridiculous. One accidental trance session wouldn’t put Elaine in Courtney’s power, not in real life. So that bugged me._ **

** _Mmm, what else…? Despite doing a fair amount of research, I always felt like the setting for “YKYWT” was just bland and uninteresting. I always want to put my characters in a unique environment, but the (completely fictional) John Milton Hay High School never excited me very much._ **

** _Finally, Elaine also became problematic. I like Elaine a lot, especially her conflicted nature between her shared Korean and American heritages. But she spends most of the story controlled by hypnosis. This means she’s constantly acting against her own best interests, which is hard to sustain over the course of a long story like this. Elaine isn’t as hopelessly passive as Grace is in “Congressional Detail,” but I realized that I needed her to be more assertive early on._ **

** _In another story, I might have been able to power through Elaine’s passivity. But “You Know You Want To” was taking on too much water from the other issues._ **


	13. Conclusion

** _Well, there you have it. Three erotic hypnosis stories that started strong, but ran out of gas before I could get them across the finish line. Such is life. I’ve labored over each of these tales for waaaaay too long now, and have come to the sobering conclusion that I am simply not meant to bring them into existence. I give them up for adoption._ **

** _Do you see ways to fix my blunders? If so, feel free to download the text, dust it off, and write a better version. Go for it. Make it your own in every way. Don’t feel bound by my choices or feel that you have to honor the plots that I devised._ **

** _And if you like, post a hyperlink to your opus in the Comments section. I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with._ **

** _ -NickelModelTales_ **


End file.
